


Keeping Me Alive

by Cassy27



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Drug Withdrawal, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gil has a lot of fatherly feels, Hurt/Comfort, John Watkins is not kind to him, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Malcolm is struggling, Physical Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Gil Arroyo, Psychological Torture, benzodiazepines abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:15:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 54,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22631695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassy27/pseuds/Cassy27
Summary: On December the second, Malcolm Bright got kidnapped by a man who can help unlock his past. It takes Chief Lieutenant Gil Arroyo thirty-five days to find him. Thirty-five days of torture and torment. What did John Watkins do to him exactly? And can Malcolm accept the help offered to him to help deal with the aftermath of his captivity?
Comments: 130
Kudos: 222





	1. Eight Hundred and Forty Hours

**Author's Note:**

> After episode ten aired back in December, I started writing my own take on the following events. So this follows most of the series, but I’ve changed a few things here and there. I suppose that makes this sort of an AU. Most of this story has been written, so chapters will come steadily. The story starts with Gil's POV, but will quickly switch to Malcolm's POV. Enjoy! 
> 
> Thank you, LittleBookOwl, for being an awesome friend and editing my chapters for me!

His hands were itching.

Gil Arroyo considered himself to be a steady man, always thinking first before acting, priding himself on being composed and disciplined – but not right now. Right now, his fingers were constantly moving, clenching and unclenching in his lap or drumming against his knees, aching to grab hold of the gun strapped to his side. He wished he was the one driving instead of JT, just so that he’d have something to focus on, but instead he was left staring out the window, into the dark night, counting the seconds ticking by.

It had been five weeks.

Thirty-five days. 

Eight hundred and forty hours.

Fifty-thousand and four-hundred seconds since Bright had gone missing, and now they finally had a lead. Gil’s heart filled with hope, but cautious hope, because he knew the disappointment would be immense if this turned out to be a bust, too. There was a house that had belonged to John Watkin’s grandmother on his father’s side. It had gotten lost over time, forgotten, had never been sold after the grandmother had died a long time ago, but Dani had dug it up, and Gil had a good feeling about this.

Well, not _good_ exactly. In fact, the feeling taking hold of him was quite the opposite, like a rock pressing against his chest and making breathing painful. Like a snake coiling inside his stomach and twisting his insides. Gil could feel he was getting closer to Bright with every mile they drove, but still he hadn’t been able to pick up the phone and call Jessica. He didn’t want to fill her with hope and certain expectations, only to then take them away if this house turned out to be nothing anyway.

They were far away from New York, nothing but trees surrounding them. The sky was pitch-black, no moon visible, the only light around them coming from their cars. They had alerted the local authorities, had set up a time to check out the house, but now Gil wasn’t sure that had been the best call he could have made. If Bright was there with the Junkyard Killer – with Paul Lazar or John Watkins or whatever the hell he liked the call himself these days – then his decision would be the reason why Bright was in that lunatic’s hands that much longer.

And yet … Gil needed to be there should they find him. He needed to be there should they find Lazar. He wanted to be the one to arrest him and lock him away for a long, long time to come. That might be a selfish notion, but his hands twitched with impatience at the idea of slapping a pair of cuffs around that man’s wrists.

“We’re nearly there,” JT said, dragging Gil from his thoughts.

This time, he did reach for his gun, checking the number of bullets inside. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use his weapon, wanting to catch Lazar alive so he could see him brought to justice for all the lives he’d taken, see him put behind bars, possibly take a picture of that scene and frame it behind his desk, but he wouldn’t hesitate if the need arose. He wouldn’t even pause should he needed to protect Bright.

They stopped about five hundred yards away from the house, where five police cars were already awaiting them. There were no sirens, but their lights were casting blue and red shadows all around them. Gil cursed silently, his grip on his gun tightening. He hadn’t wanted to alert Lazar of their coming, but now their chance for a surprise invasion was gone.

The Chief of Police was present himself and stepped forward the moment Gil stepped out of the car.

“We’ve scouted the area,” the man started instantly – there was no time to exchange pleasantries. There never was. “As far as we can tell, there’s no one inside the house, but we should be vigilant nonetheless.”

Gil nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”

The walk to the house seemed to take even longer than the drive. Gil’s fingers were clenched tightly around his weapon to the point where his knuckles had gone white, and his heart beat mercilessly in his throat. He was focused, completely, and he could tell JT and Dani were, too, even with nothing but flashlights illuminating their faces. Their lips were pressed into two fine lines, their jaws clenched. They might only have known Bright for a few months, but they had come to care for him a great deal. He had become an important member of their team, despite his knack for annoyance.

Police officers moved to surround the house, and Gil made his way towards the front door. The wood creaked under his feet. This place truly had been abandoned years ago, the wood rotting, the windows broken, white curtains flowing in and out of the house through the broken glass, like a scene from a horror movie – a terrifying thought Gil quickly pushed from his mind.

Finding Bright, that was all that mattered.

An officer to his left gave a signal. Gil turned to look at JT who didn’t hesitate and lifted his foot, stomping in the front door. Officers all around him shouted they were the police and that the house was fully surrounded, but Gil didn’t hear them anymore. He paid them no attention, but instead rushed inside, past JT, and scanned his surroundings. A dozen officers did the same, all searching for the same thing, for the same person, but the areas downstairs were completely and utterly empty.

His mouth turned dry, the blow of disappointment making him swallow heavily.

Gil bit down on his tongue, pushing away the disillusionment of finding Bright – and then Dani called his name. She’d called for him a thousand times already and Gil had learned a long time ago that when she’d found something important, her voice sounded just a tad higher than usual.

“What is it?” He all but pushed aside the officers blocking his way, rushing towards a room that used to be the bathroom – he could tell by the broken sink, the disgustingly filthy bathtub, and half a toilet – only to halt, bile rising up his throat as he got there.

On the floor lay the body of a woman, dressed in nothing but a white nightgown. Her long blond hair covered her face and blood coloured her skin, but it had turned black a while ago already. Flies crawled in and out of a wound near her stomach. Gil covered his lips with the back of his hand, the stench horrible and pungent, but he had learned a long time ago not to let that get to him, to stay professional.

After forcing down the bile rising up his throat, Gil stepped further into the room and crouched beside the woman, scanning her body for details. There were ligature wounds around her wrists and ankles, indicating that she’d been bound. The deep purple of the wounds indicated she’d been bound for a while. Carefully and with the help of a handkerchief, as not to destroy any evidence, he pushed aside her blond hair and observed the bruises to her face. They made it difficult to estimate her age, but Gil guessed she was around twenty-five years old.

It seemed Paul Lazar wasn’t here, but he sure as hell had been.

Cursing, wishing they had found this place sooner, Gil stood and, for a moment, imagined what he would do if he ever found Lazar. He liked to imagine folding his hands around his throat and squeezing, because a gun would be too quick. He liked to imagine beating his fists against his face, and he liked to imagine Jessica doing the same, because that woman was a fierce lioness when it came to protecting her children. It was a fantasy Gil didn’t entertain for too long, however, because he needed to keep his head straight, needed to stay focused, and–

Dani called for his attention a second time. She stood in the doorway, a gun in one hand, a flashlight in her other. Her face was all hard lines, focus and determination drawing them. “We need to head upstairs,” she said. “There’s a locked door.”

 _Malcolm_.

Gil stood and followed her up a wooden staircase that creaked under their feet. Flashlights illuminated his way. Behind him, JT followed carrying bolt cutters. Gil’s heart beat furiously against his ribs. He could feel it. He could feel he was getting closer to Bright, could almost hear the young man’s breathing through the locked door – which was impossible, he knew that, but he still _believed_.

The urge to yell out his name was overwhelming, but the fact remained there was no telling who or what was behind the locked door, so Gil clenched his jaw together and forced down Malcolm’s name, which sat heavily on the tip of his tongue.

The lock fell away and JT pushed open the door. In that moment, Gil forgot about protocol and stored away his gun, believing there was no threat, _knowing_ Malcolm was right there, and stepped forward – only to halt at the sight that greeted him, the bottom of his stomach dropping away, making him feel ill.

His feet refused to carry him onwards. His mind refused to cooperate.

In the centre of the room lay Malcolm Bright, with his back turned to them and his knees drawn up high to his chest. He lay too still, completely motionless, curled into a little ball … Gil honestly didn’t know if he was alive or not. He had expected a lot of things, had played this scenario in his head a thousand times already, had imagined finding Bright again and again, but never like this.

Never like _this._

Doubt made his stomach churn and panic made his knees weak, but determination made him take a step forward. And another. And another. Slowly walking around Malcolm’s frail form, Gil sucked in a deep breath and kneeled before him. Bright’s eyes were closed and his limbs were slack. There was no telling if he was breathing or not, so with a trembling hand, Gil reached out and pressed two fingers against his throat.

Malcolm groaned, softly and barely audible, but Gil had heard him and relief crashed into him like a wave of water crashing against the shore, wild and unpredictable and painful, and Gil had to bite back tears threatening to escape the corners of his eyes. Tears of relief. Tears of joy. Tears of horror and confusion, disbelief and anger.

A breath he hadn’t known to be holding escaped his lips.

“Bright?” he asked gently, his hand folding around the young man’s wrist.

Malcolm bolted upward suddenly, his blue eyes wide and frantic, and crawled backwards, cradling his left hand to his chest.

Gil lost his balance and toppled over, cursing as he did, only to catch sight of Malcolm pressing himself against the wall, like a frightened little bird with broken wings, unable to get away and unable to understand what was happening. It was a sight that shocked him to his core. Gil wanted to stand and close the distance between them again, wrap his arms around him and tell him everything would be okay, that they had found him, but the utter panic in Bright’s eyes – no, more than panic, _hysteria_ – stopped him from doing so.

The sound of metal clanging against wood filled the room. Gil’s attention snapped to a heavy metal chain tying Bright’s ankles to the floor. It cut into his skin, blood dripping onto the floor. “Oh, God,” he breathed.

JT saw it, too, and didn’t hesitate to cut the metal chain with his bolt cutters.

“Bright.” Gil slowly, carefully crawled closer towards the young man who had once saved his life. He had only been ten years old, but he’d already been the bravest kid Gil had ever met. Now that same kid needed him and he had failed him, was still failing him. “It’s okay, Bright, it’s us. We’ve found you.”

Two bright blue eyes were staring at him, but they betrayed only confusion and fear. No relief shimmered through them. This was _not_ as Gil had imagined finding him. He’d expected a grateful young man smiling at him as he’d walk up to him, had expected to clap a hand on his shoulder and tell him everything would be alright, that this nightmare was finally over, but right now, Bright looked at him as if the nightmare was still very much ongoing. He looked at him as if he understood nothing of what he said, and every time Gil drew closer, Bright shrunk away.

He looked too thin, too gaunt, with bruises covering most of his visible skin. His left hand looked painfully thick, the angle of it not quite right, and dark red stains covered his shirt and trousers. Blood. There were dark circles around his eyes which stood wide, with frightfully dilated pupils. Gil couldn’t help but glance at his arms where, sure enough, puncture wounds marked his skin where a needle had penetrated him.

“Chief,” Dani said softly. “An ambulance is on its way.”

“Bright …” Gil was so close now that, if he were to reach out a hand, he could touch him, but he didn’t. Instead, he sought eye-contact, which was goddamn difficult with Bright’s gaze flickering all over the place, the lights from the flashlights clearly agitating him, possibly even hurting him.

“ _Malcolm._ ” That made the young man’s attention snap towards him, those piercing blue eyes finally finding focus, and Gil could feel a connection establishing between them, Malcolm finally recognizing him. Relief made the tension that had built in his muscle dissipate, and Gil smiled faintly. “Malcolm,” he repeated, enunciating his name with utter care. “Did you hear Dani? An ambulance will be here soon and then we can take you away from this place.”

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

Five weeks.

Thirty-five days.

Eight hundred and forty hours.

Fifty-thousand and four-hundred seconds.

What the fuck had Lazar done to him?

“Malcolm, can you look at me again?” This time, perhaps against his better judgement, Gil did reach out, his fingers brushing the skin of Malcolm’s arm and drawing his attention back to him. He hated how unnatural his eyes appeared. “Do you think you can walk?”

Bright’s lips parted, but no sound left him and terror filled his gaze. He seemed lost for words, seemed physically incapable of producing a single sound, and Gil wanted to comfort him, wanted to take away the fear and pain that clearly controlled him, but then Malcolm’s breathing quickened and every muscle in his body tensed.

Before Gil understood what was happened, Malcolm’s head lolled back. Then his body fell to the floor, his limbs spasming and his back arching.

The whole world stopped turning.

Gil felt frozen in place.

Smothered, strangled noises left Malcolm, his whole body coiling and twisting on the floor. Gil knew he should rush forward and help, knew he should hold him down and make sure he wouldn’t suffocate or bite down on his tongue as a seizure took hold of him, but not one fibre in his body seemed to listen to whatever reason was still left inside him.

Instead, all he could do was watch Dani hurry forward. She grabbed hold of him and rolled him onto his side, to make sure he wouldn’t hurt himself. She was saying something, or shouting something, but Gil couldn’t hear her. Shock had numbed him and stolen all reason from his mind.

Police officers started running around.

“–help him, Chief!” Dani exclaimed.

Her panic felt like an electric shock that surged through his veins, awakening him and urging him into action. Gil swallowed heavily. He swallowed away his doubt and fear and panic and dread, shrugged away the imaginary shackles holding him down, and all but threw himself at Malcolm, pulling him out of Dani’s arms and into his own. He held him as close as possible, to keep him safe.

“They’re here,” JT announced.

A moment later, medics rushed into the room.

They stole Malcolm away from him, took him out of his arms, and Gil found himself unable to move again. The medics were talking, asking questions, but he found himself unable to answer them. His voice was gone. Literally. All that he could do was stare at Malcolm Bright and pray, for what might be the first time in his life (he hadn’t even prayed when Jackie had fallen ill), for everything to be okay.

-x-

There were a lot of people who hated hospitals. They disliked the clinical smell of them, the dry air inside of them, the decrepit colour of the walls, but Gil had never had that problem. To him, a hospital was a building like any other. Perhaps the fact that he had to visit them on a nearly weekly basis, for his work, had something to do with that.

But as he walked into the ER tonight, he felt a little nauseous, the smell of disinfectants making his stomach churn. There were people everywhere, too, making the whole place feel overcrowded and loud, but Gil ignored them all. He headed towards the info-desk, uncaring that he might be cutting in front of a few others, and ignored the nurse’s disapproving look on her face.

“Malcolm Bright,” he started curtly. “Where did they take him?”

For a long second, the nurse stared at him, clearly disliking his tone, but then she typed in a few things on her computer and pointed him into the direction of emergency box number eight, just down the hall. Gil didn’t wait for Dani and JT to catch up, but quickly made his way to the room, only to be stopped by another nurse just as she stepped out.

“Can I help you?” she asked, deliberately blocking his way.

Gil resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m here to see Malcolm Bright.” He pointed to the closed door behind her. “Is he in there?”

“Are you family?”

“Yeah, he’s my–” He stopped himself and swallowed whatever words were going to follow next. His lungs hurt from breathing so fast. “I’m Chief Lieutenant Arroyo. The man who’s in there is my colleague, Malcolm Bright.”

“If you’re not family then you can’t go in there.” An apologetic look crossed the nurse’s face. Any other day, Gil would understand, would even appreciate her consideration of hospital procedures, but right now, her words were only frustrating him. “Besides, he’s in no state to answer any of your questions. The doctors are still with him.”

His frustration transformed into anger. Asking questions was the least of his concern, and Gil almost parted his lips to protest, but then he reminded himself of the fact that this woman was only doing her job. “I understand–” He had to force those words out, and he had to force himself to remain polite. “But please, I just need to know if he’s gonna be okay.”

The nurse hesitated, glancing across her shoulder at the closed door, and then sighed. “He’ll live, if that’s what you want to know.”

That answer didn’t reassure him. Gil closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and inhaled sharply, steadying himself, because he had to keep thinking straight. Malcolm needed him to do what was right, to be there for him when the doctors would allow him, so he’d be no use to him if he broke down now. Besides, he hadn’t crumbled in five weeks. He wouldn’t crumble now.

“Alright,” he said, straightening his thoughts and determining the next best course of action. “I’ll obviously need a report from the ER-medic, so could you please relay that message for me? I’m going to call his mother now and tell her we’ve found him.”

The nurse nodded and disappeared into the room behind her again.

He’d sounded confident, Gil thought grimly, sounded so very sure of his words, but as he reached for his phone, his hands shook and he felt sick. He was sure that, if he’d had anything to eat these past few hours, he would throw up.

Focusing on his breathing, Gil made his way outside, dialling Jessica’s number which he knew by heart, and pressed the phone to his ear as he stepped out into the cold night-air.

Temperatures had dropped below zero and when Gil looked up, he counted a million stars. It was an unattainable sight in New York City, but here, without light-pollution, Gil allowed it to draw him in and distract him for a moment. His eyes fluttered shut, a soft breeze brushing across his face, calming his nerves and giving him a chance to relax for the first time in hours.

And then he heard the line connect and his heart skipped a beat. He chastised himself for not thinking the right words first, for not coming up with a proper way to relay this message to Jessica, but it was too late to end the call now.

“Gil?” It might be the middle of the night, but Jessica didn’t sound groggy. She didn’t sound like she’d just been awoken by the noise of her cell phone ringing on her nightstand. No, she sounded very much awake, reminding Gil that she had barely been catching any sleep since he’d told her that her son had gone missing.

“We’ve found him.” The words felt rough inside his mouth, unnatural. He’d been wanting to say them for so long already, but now that he could, they hurt. Because he’d had this conversation in his mind a hundred times already, had imagined telling her they’d found Malcolm a hundred times already, but the message had always been completed with a ‘ _he’s alright_ ’. “You need to come to the hospital, Jessica, as soon as possible.”

“Oh, God.” Her voice broke. “Is he–?” She didn’t finish her sentence.

And Gil couldn’t finish it for her. “Just come, Jessica, he needs you.”


	2. John Watkins

Part of him wanted to reach out and put a hand on Jessica’s shoulder, but another part of him held him back. Perhaps it was the look in her eyes, sad and withdrawn, like she needed a moment to herself to process everything that was happening. Perhaps it was the way her fingers were curled around the paper cup filled with terrible hospital-coffee, as if she was contemplating on throwing it against the wall. Or perhaps it was the obvious tension in her muscles, as if every movement hurt.

Whatever it was, Gil decided against touching her and instead moved to stand beside her, leaning against the wall, with his gaze focused on his own cup of terrible hospital-coffee.

“If I ever get my hands on him …” she began, her voice thick with emotion. Gil knew what she was thinking, and he knew what she was feeling, because he thought and felt the same.

“I’m sorry, Jessica.” Her gaze lifted to meet his, confusion evident in her eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t find him sooner.”

She didn’t say anything back, didn’t tell him to ignore such thoughts, but instead turned her gaze away, and silence settled in between them again. Gil sighed and stared at his coffee, debating on whether he should drink it or not given the risk of a stomach ache later on, but drinking this was better than drinking something else, something stronger – which he craved right now. God, he’d give anything for a decent drink.

Nurses walked by, a few doctors, too. Patients and their families passed them, all throwing them a curious look, all wondering what their reason was to be here. Gil could read the guesses behind their eyes, but none would ever get close to the truth. Because the truth seemed far-fetched. More so, the truth seemed surreal. Eight hundred and forty hours Malcolm had been held captive by a madman and now half a dozen doctors and nurses were busy trying to save his life.

Gil didn’t know how long they stood in that hallway for, in silence.

The wait became unbearable. Seconds had turned into minutes; minutes had turned into hours. Gil hadn’t slept properly since Malcolm had been kidnapped, but now he hadn’t slept at all since Dani had dug up the house. Exhaustion was wearing him down, as was the lack of knowing, the inability to find out what Malcolm's condition was.

It was early morning when a nurse approached, clearing her throat to call for their attention. She told them they could enter Malcolm’s room. _Finally_ Gil would get to see him again. _Finally_ he would be able to tell him everything would be alright. _Finally_ he would be able to promise him that they would capture that bastard, because Paul Lazar had gotten away.

He could do none of those things. Standing in the doorway, Gil suddenly found himself unable to move and enter the room. Jessica rushed to her son’s sickbed, her hands reaching out for him, only to freeze mid-air, hovering above Malcolm as if afraid to touch him. Gil watched her blink slowly – blinking away her fear, her insecurity, her sadness. He’d never seen her like that before.

He’d never seen Malcolm like this before.

He lay still in the hospital bed, one hand resting on top of his chest, his other one wrapped with a cast. Gil had been right when he’d assumed it had been broken. His sunken eyes were closed, with dark circles around them. His lips were pale and dry. He barely seemed to be breathing, but the machine standing next to his bed beeped steadily, assuring Gil that he was, in fact, alive.

“Oh, Malcolm,” Jessica breathed as she carefully brushed a hand through his hair.

Malcolm didn’t react.

Only after scraping together whatever courage he had left, Gil stepped inside the room. His footsteps were deafening to his own ears, or perhaps that was his imagination. Swallowing heavily, forcing down the fear and unease lodged in his throat, he moved to stand beside Jessica and watched her fingers thread through her son’s hair. He wished he could touch him, too, but he was afraid it would only hurt him. He looked too fragile.

This time, he did place a hand on top of Jessica’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“He looks so …” She released a shaky breath and closed her eyes.

“I know,” Gil said.

A doctor entered the room a few moments later, offering them a kind, but sad smile, because he knew what Malcolm had gone through, but he also knew what they must have gone through. He walked around Malcolm’s bed to check his vitals and only when he seemed satisfied with the results did he lay down the file he’d been holding. He cleared his throat and let his gaze slide between him and Jessica. “You must be Mrs. Whitley.” He held out a hand for Jessica to shake – which she did. “And you are?” His attention turned to Gil who couldn’t help but think the guy looked too young to be a doctor.

“Also family,” Jessica replied in his stead. “Tell me, Doctor, how is my son?”

“Well,” the doctor – Dr. Blake, according to the blue stitch-pattern on his white doctor’s coat – started, his attention flickering to the file he’d just put down. He brushed his blond hair back, curling it behind his ears. “It’s clear your son has gone through severe trauma. Besides the broken hand, he has a stab-wound to the back of his leg and a nasty cut to his abdomen. His skin is bruised, as you can see–” his fingers motioned to the colours dotting his throat and face, the only ones visible right now, “–and he’s severely dehydrated and malnourished.”

Jessica bit down on her lip, biting back tears.

Gil crossed his arms before his chest, just so they wouldn’t see how much his hands were shaking with anger.

“And then there’s the issue of benzodiazepines we’ve found in his system.” The doctor inhaled deeply, pausing a moment, perhaps to give them time to process what he was saying, what he had already said, but Gil wanted him to keep talking. He needed to know what had happened to Bright. “Does your son have a history of drug abuse?”

Jessica shook her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Well …” Gil knew lying would bring them no closer to helping him. “He does take a lot of medication, but it’s all prescribed.”

“The high levels we’ve found in his blood and urine tell us he’s been taking a lot,” Dr. Blake explained. He had sharp, blue eyes, the colour much like Malcolm’s, but still different. Colder. Stricter. “It looks like they’ve been administered intravenously–” Gil’s gaze snapped towards Malcolm’s arm, to the bruises near the pit of his elbow where a needle had punctured his skin. He’d noticed them back at the house already. “–using high dosages. The seizure he suffered was caused by the sudden drop of benzodiazepines-levels in his blood.”

“Like he’d gone cold turkey,” Gil said, understanding.

“Yes,” Dr. Blake nodded. “We’re keeping him sedated so that his body can recover, both from the injuries he’s sustained as well as from the sudden withdrawal.”

“But he’ll be okay?” Jessica asked, hope ringing in her voice.

Again, the doctor nodded.

A weight lifted from Gil’s chest, making breathing a little easier.

“He’ll be okay.” Dr. Blake offered them a reassuring smile. “Eventually.”

-x-

**The first thing Malcolm became aware of was the cold. His T-shirt stuck to his sweaty back – cold sweats – and he lay shivering on a hard surface, his legs pulled up high to his chest with his arms wrapped tightly around them in a desperate search for warmth.**

**The second thing he became aware of was the pounding of his head, like someone was actively beating it with a hammer. Malcolm pressed his hands to the sides of his head, as if he could push away the throbbing pain muddling his mind.**

**The third thing was the weight of a metallic chain binding his ankles. Opening his eyes, blinking away the haze that clouded his vision, Malcolm pushed himself into a sitting position, momentarily confused as to where he was or how he got there. And then he remembered. A shiver ran down his back – because of the cold or because of the memories rushing back to him, he didn’t know.**

**Groaning, feeling nauseous – he wouldn’t be surprised to learn he suffered a concussion – Malcolm brought a hand to the spot on his head where John Watkins had knocked him out. At least he wasn’t bleeding, Malcolm thought glumly.**

**“Finally awake,” a voice said behind him.**

**His heart skipped a beat.**

**As quickly as he could, Malcolm turned where he sat on the floor, the metallic chain making too much noise and hurting his head even more – or was it the sudden movement that did that? John Watkins sat before him on a wooden chair, one leg crossed over the other, his hands resting casually in his lap. He looked at ease, comfortable in this icy room. The bastard even had the nerve to crack a smile as he watched Malcolm put as much distance between them as possible.**

**Malcolm’s upper lip curled with contempt.**

**Only when his back hit a wall did he halt. His chest was heaving with panic, his lungs burning from inhaling the freezing air, and Malcolm forced himself to calm down, to stop panicking, and to _think_. He was good at that, after all. _Thinking_. His gaze darted around the room, to get a sense of where the hell he was, but it didn’t take him long to figure out he was no longer at the crazy grandmother’s house. Then again, Watkins had told him as much right before he’d knocked him unconscious. He’d need to think _better_ if he wanted to find a way out of here.**

**“My apologies for the headache,” Watkins said. “I can get you an aspirin if you want.”**

**The last thing Malcolm wanted, was to accept anything from that man.**

**His attention focused on the room again. There was nothing inside, except for the chair Watkins sat on and the metal latch in the centre of the floor to which his feet were tied. The walls were covered with sound absorbing foam and there was only one window behind Watkins which was clearly nailed shut. There would be no escaping that way.**

**“Do you like it?” Watkins asked.**

**The question threw him off guard. “Like what?” It was the first time he spoke and his voice sounded hoarse, unlike his own, so Malcolm cleared his throat and tried to speak up. He didn’t want to appear small and afraid. No, he refused to cower before him. “The room?”**

**“I spent quite some time making it.” Watkins sounded pleased with himself. Proud. “I didn’t know I was making it for you back then, but now it feels meant to be.”**

**He was crazy. Malcolm couldn’t come up with a better-suited word to describe the man sitting before him. He’d always assumed Watkins wasn’t entirely sane, but now he was sure he’d need a special method if he wanted to get away from him. Thank God he was a skilled profiler.**

**Drawing his knees up to his chest, his arms wrapping around them to try and keep warm, Malcolm decided that the best course of action was to keep the man talking. “If you’re so good at renovating, you should have chosen a different career.”**

**Watkins laughed, loud and hearty, with a hand pressed to his chest.**

**Malcolm cringed at the sound, his headache intensifying.**

**“Your father had a wonderful sense of humour, too,” Watkins chuckled as he wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. “Speaking of the nice Dr. Whitley, how is he these days?”**

**Malcolm’s fingernails dug deep into the skin of his palms. Just thinking about his father angered him, because was he not the reason he was in this mess? Sure, his own carelessness had helped Watkins’ cause, had helped to kidnap him, but in the end, it all tied back to _the nice Dr. Whitley_ , didn’t it?**

**“I wouldn’t know,” Malcolm said through gritted teeth. He wouldn’t have answered at all if he had a choice in the matter, but if he wanted to keep Watkins talking, if he wanted to distract him, keep him from his goal – whatever that might be – he had no choice but to indulge him. That, and he needed to keep him talking so that Gil would have enough time to find him. “I haven’t spoken to him in weeks. He’s been in solitary confinement for riling up fellow inmates.”**

**Watkins turned his gaze to his hands resting in his lap and nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, yes,” he replied quietly, as if lost in thought – only for his attention to snap back to his prisoner, fire raging behind his dark eyes. “You are the reason he’s been locked away in that … miserable place.”**

**Annoyance nearly made him roll his eyes. “Also, he murdered twenty-three people,” Malcolm couldn’t help but argue. He should probably shut up, should give the answers Watkins wanted to hear, but then again, Malcolm had never been the kind of person to pick the easy road, certainly not when it came to his father. “He’s in that place because he’s a serial killer.”**

**“And what about all the good work he’s done?” Watkins asked, one eyebrow raised high.**

**Realisation dawned on him. “You watched the interview.” It wasn’t a question.**

**Watkins chuckled. “Who hasn’t?” The anger that had raged inside him only a moment ago was already gone again, melted away like snow beneath the sun. Instead, he appeared amused, like he was enjoying himself, enjoying the seemingly mundane conversation he was having with his prisoner. Perhaps he really was. “What a great interview that was. Your sister truly has talent.”**

**Ainsley wasn’t a subject Malcolm wished to discuss what him. No, he needed to keep his attention fixed on the male members of the Whitley family. “My father is a cruel, narcissistic psychopath who takes pleasure in hurting and manipulating others.” Malcolm’s eyes narrowed, but the corners of his lips tugged upwards ever so slightly. “I wonder if he took pleasure in manipulating you, too.”**

**Just a few well-chosen words were all it took. Watkins jumped up onto his feet and took a hasty step forward, every muscle in his body strained, every vein visible throbbing. Malcolm couldn’t help but flinch, couldn’t help but try and pull back, but he was already driven into a corner and he couldn’t get away. “Your father is a great man,” Watkins spat. His face had turned red. “While you are nothing but a spoiled and ungrateful son – your father deserves so much better than you.”**

**His breathing had quickened, his heart beating wildly against his ribcage, Watkins’ rage inciting panic within Malcolm, but that panic quickly subsided and was replaced with self-satisfaction. He’d wanted to push Watkins’ buttons and, _oh,_ how easily he’d done so. He might be the one in chains, but for a moment, he’d been the one controlling this whole mess.**

**He felt a little less cold.**

**“I remember you,” he said once Watkins sat back down. Perhaps riling him up as he’d done just now wasn’t a smart move. He should try not to do so again, but temptation lured him, and it was just so goddamn interesting to see how Watkins’ mind ticked. That, and this was a chance to gain some answers his father would never give. “I remember we went on a camping trip and you were there.”**

**“Ah yes.” Watkins smiled. “What a nice trip that was. I could tell Dr. Whitley was proud of you, just by the way he looked at you, but then … What a disappointment you must be to him.”**

**“And why would that be?”**

**“Because he tried to teach you,” Watkins answered as if it were the most logical explanation in the world. Leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, Watkins cocked his head to the side and stared into Malcolm’s bright but confused blue eyes. “All that knowledge he possessed, all that experience, he wanted to give that to you, but you denied it.”**

**Flashes of memories flared up inside his mind, images and sounds and smells, but they were too chaotic to comprehend, to recognize and understand. Closing his eyes, sighing heavily, Malcolm tried to make sense of them, tried to organize them and understand them, but there were still too many gaps, still too many unanswered questions.**

**“How?” he asked, _pleaded_. “How did he try and give that to me?”**

**When Watkins stood this time, it was in a calm and composed manner.**

**Malcolm didn’t shrink away from him again. He merely watched him approach and kneel in front of him, those dark eyes of him boring into his bright ones. “By showing you,” Watkins said. “You really don’t remember, do you? Your father wanted to show you how to kill someone, but you were too weak and you couldn’t handle it.”**

**He remembered a knife, remembered flashes of a metallic blade glistening under rays of bright sunlight. The memory of the knife’s weight in his hand made his limbs tremble. Malcolm looked down at his hands, but found them empty. His fingers twitched around air. He felt a little nauseous. “I was ten years old.” His voice sounded hollow.**

**“In many ways, you remind me of him.” Watkins pressed one finger to the underside of Malcolm’s chin, forcing him to look up at him again, and to keep looking up at him. “There’s a glint to your eyes I recognize, but the closer I look, the more I see the differences.” He shook his head, as if disappointed, and sighed. “Don’t worry, Malcolm Whitley, I have no plans on killing you. I wouldn’t disrespect your father that way.”**

**Malcolm drew himself away from him, away from his touch as if it burned him.**

**Watkins’ message didn’t ease his mind.**

**On the contrary.**

**Watkins stood and laughed. “I like you, Malcolm,” he said, turning away from him. “I always have, and I think we’re going to have a great time together. Just the two of us.”**

**It took Malcolm a moment to register his words, to hear them and understand them, but before he could ask another question, before he could demand what his plans for him were if he didn’t mean to kill him, Watkins opened the door and stepped through, throwing it shut with a loud, definitive bang.**

**Malcolm flinched, his headache threatening to split apart his skull.**

**Only when the locks slide into place, locking him inside, all alone, did Malcolm allow panic to return to him and settle in his bones, making his body tremble where he sat. Only when he knew Watkins wouldn’t come back any time soon did he let fear move around his chest like a claw, making breathing more difficult.**

**The only notion that eased his mind was the fact that Gil was searching for him, and that he would soon find him.**

**Because Gil always found him when he needed him.**


	3. The Macdonald Triad

Gil hadn’t been able to enter Malcolm’s room again. Instead, he always found himself standing before the window that allowed him to look inside, but every time he wanted to take those final steps, he found himself unable to.

Jessica was sitting by her son’s bed, her hand folded around his, holding it and rubbing soothing circles into his skin. It had been nearly two days since they’d found him, but they were still nowhere closer to finding answers. Paul Lazar was gone, Malcolm lay unconscious in a hospital bed, and Gil – He sighed, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, and thought that he was nowhere near helpful to anyone.

For the hundredth time, he opened the file the doctor had given him and read the report. It felt like he was torturing himself every time he registered the details in his mind, but he had no other choice. He needed to understand what had happened to Malcolm if he hoped to help him when he woke up. The bruises, the cuts, the broken bones. The malnourishment and dehydration. He counted every detail until his head started to hurt and his fingers shook. Part of him wanted to close the file, but Gil forced himself to keep reading.

Dr. Blake had given a detailed description of the puncture wounds he’d found on Malcolm’s arms where Lazar had injected him with benzodiazepines, high dosages of it apparently, and the consequences of those dosages. Drowsiness, memory-loss, coordination-problems, easily irritated, underestimating dangerous problems – frankly, Gil recognized some of those side-effects from before Malcolm had been kidnapped, but now they needed to be prepared for those symptoms to increase.

There was one word that always made Gil’s mind grind to a halt. _Seizure_. Every time he read that word, he was flung back to that moment at the house where Malcolm’s entire body spasmed, where his head had fallen back and his eyes had been screwed shut. He wanted to press his hands to his ears to stop hearing those strangled, smothered noises leave him. He wanted to cover his eyes and stop seeing his frail body twist and turn on the floor. He wanted to–

“Chief?”

Startled, Gil spun around, nearly dropping the file, to find Dani standing there, a concerned look on her face. Her hands were buried in the pockets of her jeans and her shoulders were tense. The dark circles around her eyes betrayed how exhausted she felt, her body running on nothing but adrenaline, just like Gil’s. These were stressful times, for everyone.

“That’s the report?” she asked, nodded towards the papers in his hands.

“Yeah.” Sighing, he closed the file and held it out for her to take. “Be … discreet with it. Not everyone at the station needs to read this.”

“Of course,” Dani replied.

Gil knew he didn’t need to tell her that, that she was attentive always, because this was Dani and she was one of his best. Hell, she was the reason they’d found Malcolm and he should probably thank her, but as he parted his lips to do so, no sound escaped him. His throat felt strangely thick, words unable to pass through.

“I spoke to Mrs. Whitley,” Dani said when Gil closed his mouth again and turned his gaze back to the room, to the young man who lay too still in bed. “She seems confident that he’ll be okay.”

“Well, this is Malcolm we’re talking about.” Gil managed a faint smile and the weight pressing down on his chest lifted ever so slightly. For a moment, breathing became easier, but then his attention latched onto Malcolm’s pale skin covered with black, blue, purple and yellow bruises, and the weight returned. “He’s resilient, always has been,” he said, needing to force the words out. “And Jessica always seems to be right, so yeah, I’m sure he’ll be okay.”

-x-

**It was about twelve hours later when Watkins returned. Malcolm could tell because after he’d left, night had fallen and now it was late morning, rays of sunlight streaming in through the window without giving any warmth. Sitting in the corner of the room, making himself as small as possible in order to keep warm, Malcolm blinked open his eyes when the locks slid aside and Watkins entered.**

**“Good morning,” he said too cheerfully. In his hands, he carried a small bowl. “Did you sleep well?”**

**Malcolm didn’t move – didn’t want to, nor did he think he could. Every muscle in his body felt stiff due to the cold. “If you don’t mean to kill me,” he started, “then what do you want from me?” He knew he was being blunt, but there was no point in dancing around each other in circles, and he certainly wasn’t in the mood for small-talk. Malcolm felt far too cold and too annoyed for that.**

**Watkins took a seat on that wooden chair again – it was bolted to the floor, Malcolm had discovered that sometime during the night – and began to stir the contents of the bowl. A lovely smell drifted towards Malcolm and made his stomach growl in response. The last meal he’d eaten had been offered to him by Watkins’ crazy grandmother and he hadn’t eaten from that.**

**“Why are you in such a rush?” Watkins’ dark gaze darted between the bowl and his prisoner, curiosity filling his deep voice. “We have all the time in the world to talk. No one will find you here.”**

**One of Malcolm’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Are you sure?”**

**“I’m sure,” Watkins said. The response came so quickly, so assuredly, that Malcolm nearly believed him. The thought must have been evident on his face, because Watkins chuckled while watching him grind his teeth together. “Are you hungry?” He stood and kneeled in front of his prisoner, holding out the bowl for him to take.**

**Malcolm didn’t.**

**Again, Watkins chuckled, louder this time. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said as he began to stir the contents of the bowl again. It was oatmeal, Malcolm realised, the smell filling his nose and making his mouth water, reminding him of how hungry he actually felt. “What is my price for this breakfast?”**

**Malcolm stayed quiet and stared into Watkins’ eyes, as if he’d find the answer in them, but he was beginning to realise that it was near impossible to predict the actions of a madman. Even with his education, his experience, Malcolm had trouble pinning down Watkins, had trouble understanding his thinking and anticipating his actions. Or perhaps he had trouble with all that because he was tired, and starving, the hunger muddying his mind.**

**“I want to talk to your father,” Watkins said.**

**That caught him off guard. Frowning, Malcolm’s attention snapped away from the food and back to Watkins. “My father?” His mind raced to catch up with that of his captor, to understand him and to understand what it was he wanted. “Like I said, Dr. Whitley has been in–”**

**“–solitary confinement, yes,” Watkins finished the sentence, eyes rolling. “I’m not an idiot, Malcolm Whitley, so I’d appreciate it if you stopped treating me as one.”**

**Malcolm swallowed heavily and looked away. His stomach continued to growl.**

**“I want to talk.” Watkins held the bowl out again, wanting Malcolm to take it – which he gingerly did, expecting Watkins to take it away at the last moment, to make fun of him, to laugh at him. Once he felt the warmth of the bowl in his hands, he couldn’t help but sigh and began eating.**

**“What do you want to talk about?” he asked between bites.**

**Watkins sat down on the wooden chair again. “You.”**

**Malcolm stopped eating for a moment – the oatmeal was nice, which made it difficult to stop eating it – and stared at him. “What do you want to know?” he asked cautiously, unsure if this was the kind of conversation he wanted to have. Then again, this might be the safest conversation to have. He’d do anything to keep his mother and Ainsley safe, so if talking about himself would keep Watkins’ attention away from them, then that was only a small sacrifice to make.**

**“What exactly do you remember from our camping trip?”**

**Malcolm chewed the oatmeal thoughtfully and let the memories rush back to him. He remembered the car and the smell of it. He remembered the cabin where they’d stayed and he remembered the forest. He remembered walking through it, remembered pieces of green and brown trees, remembered the feeling of crunchy leaves beneath his shoes, and remembered the sound of water. He remembered the knife his father had given him prior to the camping trip, remembered the weight of it in his hand, and the sharpness of the blade as he’d accidentally cut himself.**

**“I don’t remember what I should.” Malcolm set the bowl of oatmeal aside – it was nearly empty anyway – and folded his hands around his knees. “But you can tell me.”**

**Watkins smiled. “I probably can.”**

**Irritation flickered through Malcolm, but then again, what had he expected? Watkins surely wasn’t going to offer answers with ease, without a price. “If you tell me, I promise you that I’ll call my father as soon as he’s out of solitary confinement.”**

**“Hm.” Watkins leaned back and rubbed a hand across his beard. “I’m surprised you’re already playing that card, knowing how much I want that.” His gaze narrowed for a moment, as if trying to catch a lie in Malcolm’s features – which he wouldn’t. “But alright, I’ll tell you. What do you want to know exactly?”**

**“You said earlier that my father wanted to teach me,” Malcolm started. He leaned forward, towards Watkins, because he needed to see his face as he’d ask him, needed to see his eyes, because he would know whether he was telling him the truth or not. “What did you mean by that?”**

**“I wasn’t lying when I said your father was disappointed.” Watkins crossed his arms before his chest, his fingers drumming against his upper arms. His gaze pierced Malcolm’s. “As I explained, we took you with us to teach you how to hunt. Your father taught you to be quiet when you needed to be, to be quick on your feet when a prey was nearby, and to track animals in the forest. He taught you to look out for snapped branches or crushed leaves, muddy prints on the ground and sounds in the air.”**

**Malcolm closed his eyes and let the memories fill his mind. He remembered enjoying himself, trailing after his father. He remembered smiling and laughing, and he remembered the way his father had smiled and laughed. He’d enjoyed his father’s lessons, had enjoyed the attention he got from him, unshared, because like any ten-year-old, he’d revelled at the time-alone he’d gotten with his father that weekend. As a renowned surgeon, he wasn’t home often, after all.**

**“Do you think the first thing I killed was a person?” Watkins asked then, snapping Malcolm from his thoughts. Malcolm shuddered at the way he’d said _thing_ , as if they were innate objects with no feelings or thoughts. “You know this, Malcolm,” Watkins continued, his voice gravelly. Dead serious. It drew him in and made him feel afraid. “You’ve studied this.”**

**He had indeed studied this and suddenly he felt like a twenty-year-old college boy again, sitting in front of his desk and reading about the Macdonald Triad. It stated that animal-cruelty, an obsession with fire, and persistent bedwetting past a certain age could predict homicidal and sexually predatory behaviour later in life. It was a much-discussed triad, with proponents and opponents, believers and disbelievers, but whether it was true or not, Malcolm couldn’t help but imagine his father as a young boy, torturing cats, setting toys on fire, and wetting his bed.**

**“He made me hunt an animal,” he said, the details of that weekend returning to him. More memories were coming back to him, the gaps finally filling in. “A young doe.”**

**“Yes.” Watkins was grinning like a fool. “We caught it together and your father was very proud. Right up until the moment he told you take out your knife and finish the job. You had to kill it.”**

**His chest constricted, his heart skipping a beat, because he remembered it now. The image of that young animal laying bound on the ground, with nothing but fear in her eyes, fear he was sure reflected in his own, made him feel nauseous. Sure, there were people in this world who enjoyed hunting, that did not make them psychopaths, but as Malcolm had stood there, just ten years old, he just hadn’t been able to do it. He hadn’t been able to kill it.**

**“If I remember correctly,” Watkins started, as if lost in thought, “you took out your knife and when your father wanted to explain to you how you could kill it mercifully, you panicked and ran away. It took us four hours to find you again.” He laughed then, his eyes squeezed shut and head thrown back. “I’ll never forget the look on your face when we found you back at the cabin. Like a frightened little bird.”**

**Malcolm stared into the distance, all the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place, but there was something … There was a piece missing, right at the centre. His mind had been repressing these memories for years and while most of it had come back, there was something …**

**“That’s not the whole story,” he argued, head shaking. “Something else happened then.”**

**Watkins was staring at his nails, losing interest in their conversation. “Not to my knowledge,” he said. “All I know, is that later that day, your father and I went out to hunt again and brought back a much prettier prey.”**

**The girl in the trunk of the car. “You’re right when you said that my father had been disappointed when I couldn’t kill that doe,” Malcolm said, closing his eyes because he found Watkins’ penetrative eyes distracting. “But more than that, he was angry.”**

**Malcolm could feel Watkins’ attention on him like a physical weight, but he couldn’t return his gaze. His mind had drifted off, was somewhere far away and far back. His father had behaved himself as long as Watkins had been around, but the moment he had left, the moment the door had closed behind him, his father had changed. A tension had crawled into his muscles and his face had hardened. He had turned to Malcolm then and pressed another knife in his hands. He’d dragged him outside, ignoring his tears and cries, and had brought him to the already dead doe tied to the hood of their car.**

**_“Stab it,” his father ordered. “Right here.” Right where her heart was. “It would have been a clean death, son, but you refused it.” His father’s eyes were blazing with anger. His hands shook. “I cut her throat and she bled out slowly. That is your fault.”_ **

**_He nearly dropped the knife, but his father curled a strong hand around his. His grip hurt him, and no matter how hard Malcolm tried to pull himself free, he couldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he cried._ **

**_“Don’t be sorry,” his father snapped. His fingers were digging bruises into his skin. “Prove to me instead that you can do this. Prove to me that you’re my son.”_ **

**_“But Dad ...” His pleas made no difference. His father brought their hands closer to the doe, the knife glinting underneath the fading sunlight, and drove it forward, into the animal. Blood dripped onto his skin, and Malcolm wretched, his knees buckling underneath his body. His father kept him standing on his feet, however, his grip unrelenting. Hurting._ **

**_“Next time–” Malcolm shuddered at the idea of ‘next time’, “–you won’t humiliate me in front of my good friend again, will you?”_ **

**_The moment his father let go of him, Malcolm ran back inside the cabin and all but slammed the door shut behind him. He crawled into bed and drew the sheets high above his head. It was dark inside the room, the sun having set, but he could still see the blood sticking to his trembling hands. He could feel it, too, but it was cold, because the doe had already been dead a while._ **

**He’d cried into his pillow and when he’d heard his father come into his room, he had held his breath and pretended to be asleep. Malcolm remembered now. It felt so insignificant now that he knew what his father had truly done, all the people he had murdered, but this new knowledge still unsettled him to the core, making him feel even colder than before which he hadn’t thought possible. Knowing that his father and Watkins had hunted a girl and that she had been lying in the trunk of that car as they had driven home, made the bottom of his stomach shift away. Knowing that his father and Watkins had killed and that they had probably kept her as a trophy, just for a little while, broke his heart.**

**“What did he do to the girl you hunted together?” Malcolm’s attention turned to Watkins again, uncaring that there were tears in his eyes. Uncaring that Watkins might consider him to be even weaker than before. “He must have told you.”**

**Watkins shrugged. “We each have our methods of disposing of our victims,” he said. “You know mine. How did your father dispose of his victims?” Watkins stood and approached him again. For a moment, Malcolm wanted to put distance between them, unsure of what he had on his mind, but then he simply picked up the nearly empty bowl of oatmeal and headed towards the door. “It doesn’t matter, Malcolm,” he said matter-of-factly. “The girl is dead and gone, and we’re not.” He looked over his shoulder at him, his dark eyes appearing even darker than before. “ _You_ are not.”**

**Then he left.**

-x-

The first thing Malcolm became aware of was the beeping of machines around him, the sounds soft and steady, all in time with his heartbeat and with his breathing.

A hand was folded around his, warm and soft, and he pulled away, not knowing who the hand belonged to. As he did, someone moved around him, standing over him, and for a moment, Malcolm felt panic surge up his throat, but then he caught a whiff of her perfume, a scent so familiar his muscles relaxed instantly. His mother.

Blinking open his eyes, he saw her standing over him, a worried frown creasing her brow. Dark circles around her brown eyes made her look older than she really was – or was that due to the lack of make-up? Malcolm couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his mother without concealer, mascara, eye-shadow, and a vibrant shade of lipstick.

“Oh, Malcolm,” she breathed with relief. Her fingers carded through his hair.

He flinched at the touch. Memories rushed back to him, pouring into his head like boiling water, hurting him, and Malcolm groaned. Pushing himself back against the pillows, he squeezed his eyes shut and forced away images of John Watkins looming over him, touching him, hurting him.

The machines around him began to beep louder.

“Malcolm?”

He tried latching onto her voice, tried focusing on it, letting it pull him out of his head, but as she curled a hand around his wrist, all he felt was Watkins’ hand. Malcolm tried to pull away, but something was holding him down. Metal chains – no, he wasn’t in that room anymore and he couldn’t feel the weight of those chains anymore. It was something else obstructing his movements; an IV tube administered fluids into his system – fluids and probably something else.

Malcolm reached for it, not wanting any of it, but his mother grabbed hold of his hand and stopped him. “No,” she warned. “They’ll make you better.”

Before he could protest, before he could even part his lips to speak, someone else rushed into the room, but Malcolm had trouble focusing. He could barely make out any shapes and forms, could barely distinguish between colours, his surroundings nothing more than twisted deformations, but then the man spoke and Malcolm recognized that voice instantly.

“You’re at the hospital, Malcolm,” Gil said with a voice that was soft and strict at the same time, as it often was. He had that interesting talent to evoke respect and obedience with nothing but a well-toned word. His voice used to calm him, but now Malcolm felt it unlock something hard and sharp within his chest. “Malcolm, can you look at me?”

He thought he was.

Blinking again, trying to focus, really trying, he slowly began to recognize the shapes of his face, his greying hair near his temples, those dark eyes, a neatly-trimmed beard. The edges were still blurry, but finally he managed to _see_ him, and Malcolm realized it was probably what was in those IV-bags that made him feel so drowsy.

“Hi, there,” Gil offered him a kind smile.

“I’m going to find Dr. Blake,” his mother said.

Gil had found him.

Malcolm remembered a dozen men bursting through the door, all their faces unrecognizable, contorted, except for Gil’s, and yet, Malcolm hadn’t been able to see him. In that room, only strangers had approached him, faceless men swarming around him like demons – Watkins’ demons.

Malcolm wanted to say something, actually parted his lips to do so, but no sound escaped him. Gil had found him, but too late. That hard and sharp form inside his chest began to twist and turn, cutting him. He’d trusted that man, had been confident he’d find him, because he always seemed to find him when he didn’t need him to, but now he had needed him and … No one had come.

“You’re gonna be okay, Malcolm,” Gil said.

The words felt empty.

Malcolm closed his eyes and turned away. He still wanted to rip out the IV drip and silence those machines. He wanted to pull free the bandages around limbs, wanted to rip off the cast around his broken hand. He wanted to scream and shout and rage and cry, but he did none of those things.

He couldn’t find the energy for it.

Instead, he rolled onto his side, ignoring the flashes of pain wrecking through him. And ignoring Gil’s worried voice saying his name again with nothing but concern.

 _He hadn’t come_ , Malcolm thought bitterly.

 _No one had come_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I obviously haven't followed the show when it comes to what happened during the camping trip. I wrote this chapter during the midseason break, so I had to come up with my own explanation. I hope you like my spin to the story! Also, from now on, we're (mostly) following Malcolm's POV!


	4. Dinnertime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to warn for (heavy) violence in this chapter and a scene that includes sensitive scenes involving an animal. I do not mean to trigger anyone or condone any of this behaviour, but this is a story that contains physical and mental torture/torment. In any case, I am a big fan of Malcolm-angst, so there's plenty of that in this chapter!
> 
> Once again, I want to thank LittleBookOwl with all my heart for editing all these chapters and sticking with me through this craziness!

**Malcolm tried to stay warm by making himself as small as possible and by continuously running his hands up and down his arms. Watkins had taken his shoes, but at least he’d left his socks. His trousers kept his legs warm, but wearing nothing but a T-shirt made Malcolm shiver non-stop. With every exhale, a puff of white smoke formed before him. The room might be sound-proof, but Watkins hadn’t taken the time to make it cold-proof.**

**The cold didn’t help him against his hunger either. His stomach growled, the last thing he ate being a bowl of oatmeal and that had been … Malcolm tried to keep track of the hours – or days – ticking by, but it was difficult because he drifted in and out of sleep, sometimes waking up when it was dark, sometimes when the sun stood high in the sky.**

**The room was too quiet. Malcolm tried to hear sounds from outside, tried hearing a plane passing overhead, or a car driving by, or birds chirping in trees, or sounds coming from inside the house, but there was nothing. He considered screaming, but he feared it would be pointless. No one would be able to hear him, except perhaps Watkins and Malcolm didn’t want to risk angering him – not yet, not while Gil could find him any moment now.**

**Counting the wooden slats of the ceiling was his first exercise, a way to stay alert, to keep busy. When he got to sixty-nine, he got bored and lost track. Then he counted the nails drilled into the wooden floor, but that too bored easily. After a while, he simply resorted to pulling at the metal chain tying him to the floor, until his nails bled, but the bolts remained firmly etched into the wood.**

**Then the locks of the door slid open.**

**Malcolm’s heart skipped a beat and he quickly shuffled backwards, wanting to put as much distance between himself and Watkins who entered the room carrying a bag in which something moved. Malcolm swallowed heavily and wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what Watkins had brought with him.**

**“Good evening, Malcolm,” Watkins said as he closed the door behind him and took a seat onto that goddamn wooden chair again. It was the only object inside this room he had little attention for – it was bolted to the floor anyway – because it belonged to Watkins, and Malcolm refused to touch it.**

**Sitting in the corner of the room, Malcolm pulled his knees as close as possible to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. To keep warm. And to keep still.**

**His attention kept drifting to the moving plastic bag.**

**“You’re curious, I notice,” Watkins chuckled. He reached into the bag and withdrew a bowl, setting it on the floor before him, but that wasn’t the only thing inside. Malcolm watched, with wide eyes, as Watkins then pulled a rabbit out of it, holding it by the scruff of his neck.**

**His stomach knotted together.**

**Watkins’ lips curled into a big smile. “I’ve brought dinner,” he said, holding up the rabbit, watching it struggle to get free. “I caught it myself.”**

**Malcolm’s mind raced to find solutions, to stop this from happening, to free that poor animal from the clutches of a madman, to free himself from his clutches, but he could think of nothing. He was as trapped as that rabbit, powerless and delivered to the whims of a serial killer. Swallowing heavily, Malcolm shuffled where he sat, as if he could put more distance between them, as if he could escape this madness.**

**“I’m not hungry,” Malcolm said, as if that would help either of them.**

**“Don’t be weak,” Watkins spat. His dark eyes flashed with anger and disappointment. “Don’t tell me you’re one of them?” He visibly shuddered. “A vegetarian, or worse?”**

**“I just–” Malcolm bit away his words. It was pointless to argue when he knew it was an argument he would lose. The truth was that he wasn’t a vegetarian – unlike his sister – and he’d never had any problem eating meat, but to see that poor rabbit struggle in Watkins’ hands, its brown eyes full of fear, as if it knew what would happen, Malcolm suddenly felt like a hypocrite for not wanting to eat it.**

**“We used to be hunters and gatherers,” Watkins said, his gaze flicking between the small animal and Malcolm. “Tens of thousands of years ago, men risked their lives in the wild to bring home food for their families. Not a man on this earth would have shuddered at the idea of killing this little thing. They had no other choice.”**

**“Not everything from the past is better,” Malcolm said, knowing it wouldn’t help his cause.**

**“People have grown weak,” Watkins snarled. Without warning, without as much as blinking, he reached behind his back and revealed a long, sharp knife. Malcolm barely had time to process what was happening, what Watkins intended to do, when he cut the blade clean across the rabbit’s neck.**

**Malcolm screwed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the thick, red blood dripping from the poor rabbit’s throat – now he knew what the bowl was for – and forced himself to keep breathing. His natural reflex was to gag, but he didn’t want to goad Watkins, didn’t want to play right into his cards, because his unease, his panic, was exactly what Watkins wanted to see.**

**“Your father would have raised you to be a stronger man than this if you’d let him.” Watkins moved, but still Malcolm couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was possible, but he was convinced he could smell the rabbit’s blood. “How pathetic.”**

**It wasn’t until Watkins kneeled before him that Malcolm opened his eyes again – which might have been a terrible decision. There was no time to react, no time to hurry aside, no time to push away Watkins’ hand as he brushed it down the side of Malcolm’s face, red and warm with blood. It dripped from Malcolm’s chin.**

**Disgust overtaking him, as well as nausea, Malcolm shoved Watkins away.**

**Watkins lost his balance, but he didn’t lash out in return as Malcolm had expected him to. Instead, he laughed, a sound that had shivers running down Malcolm’s back.**

**“You’re insane,” he breathed.**

**A hand struck him, the same one that was covered with blood. The coppery taste on his tongue – his own blood and that of the rabbit – made his stomach twist painfully. Breathing hard and fast, Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut again and wondered if all this madness was really happening, if this wasn’t just a terrible nightmare from which he couldn’t wake up. Perhaps he’d taken too many pills, was sleeping too well, or perhaps–**

**For the first time since Watkins had kidnapped him, Malcolm longed for a shot of Triazolam or Lorazepam, just a few pills to help him sleep, to help him escape, to help him forget. His hands began to shake – because of the sudden need creeping up on him or because of the panic coursing through his veins or because of the sickness churning his stomach or because of the madman kneeling in front of him, or because – Malcolm stopped himself and forced his eyes to open.**

**Watkins was staring at him with an indecipherable look on his face.**

**“I’m going to help you, Malcolm,” he said after a short, but heavy silence.**

**“Help me?” Malcolm’s voice sounded hoarse.**

**When Watkins reached out again, it wasn’t to strike him. Malcolm didn’t pull away this time. There was no point. “I’m going to help you become the man you were supposed to be,” Watkins said as he painted the other side of Malcolm’s face with blood that was now cold and sticky and gruesome. “The man your father wished you to be.”**

**When Watkins returned to the dead rabbit on the chair, Malcolm quickly grabbed hold of his T-shirt and used it to wipe away as much blood from his face as possible. His cheek hurt from where he’d been hit, his nose feeling slightly swollen and blood trickled down his lips. His own blood. He watched, still feeling nauseous and lightheaded, as Watkins sat back down and started skinning the rabbit.**

**Malcolm looked down and away.**

**There was nothing he could do against that man. Nothing he could say would help him, despite his profiler-skills, despite his experience with psychopathic serial killers. Watkins simply … eluded him.**

**Eventually, his captor left, but only for a little while. Malcolm watched the sun set through the sole window in the room, his only awareness of time. His eyes were just fluttering shut, exhaustion claiming him, when the light overhead jumped on.**

**Watkins returned with a bowl of food in hand – rabbit-stew – and handed it to him. For a few minutes that seemed to last hours, Malcolm stared at the contents and considered throwing it at his captor. He considered using the bowl as a weapon, knocking it against Watkins’ head, but then what? There was no way out of the heavy metal chains.**

**With a sigh of surrender, as Watkins observed him as he sat on that goddamn wooden chair again, the floor beneath his feet now stained red, Malcolm started to eat.**

-x-

Malcolm counted the seconds ticking by. Seconds that turned into minutes; minutes that turned into hours. His mother barely left his side and while he appreciated her concern, he couldn’t bring himself to appreciate her company. More than anything, he wanted a moment to himself, a moment to close his eyes without feeling watched. So much was sweltering inside him – emotions and thoughts, psychical sensations and unattainable ideas, memories and reminiscences – but none seemed able to reach the surface of his mind. All were kept at the back of his head, never manifesting themselves completely, instead leaving him with a pesky headache no painkiller could drive away.

The thought of painkillers caused his limbs to shake. For every ten thoughts that crossed his mind, five seemed to bring him to medication. To pills. To benzodiazepines. He’d always had a dependency on them, but he’d been convinced he still had control – which seemed ridiculous now that he thought about it, and he should see himself for what he truly was; an addict.

Like Watkins had said.

The first few days at Watkins’ place, he hadn’t had a problem with the lack of tranquilizers, had been distracted by more … pressing matters, but as time had ticked by, he’d been forced to face the truth; that he could barely function without them, could barely think straight or stand on his feet without them.

The only time his mother left the room was when someone else entered, like Gil or Ainsley, Dani or JT. At first, Malcolm didn’t think much about it. He slept a lot, his mind and body exhausted, and the times he didn’t sleep, he pretended to. After a while, however, he noticed the pattern, and it didn’t take him long to understand that they simply were afraid to leave him all alone.

Afraid of what? That he’d have another seizure? No, the machines annoying the hell out of him were keeping an eye out for that. So that left little other options. They were afraid he’d do something stupid. Like pull out the IV everyone insisted on being important so he’d gain his strength again. Like get out of bed and go looking for the pills he craved, although he was sure there were sedatives in the IV-bag. Like finding a phone and calling his father – which was something that had crossed Malcolm’s mind on more than one occasion. To shout and scream at him, curse him and yell at him – he refused to let his mind run there.

A nurse came nearly every hour. At first, Malcolm watched them check his vitals, write the information down in his file, and shook his head when they asked him if he felt any pain, but after a while, he pretended to be asleep when they entered, too.

A doctor came by in the morning and the evening – Dr. Blake if he’d read the name on his white doctor’s coat correctly – checking his medication, altering pills or ordering the nurses to change his bandages.

It was after four days of lying in bed, watching everything and everyone move around him as if they moved in slow-motion, that a psychiatrist stood at his bedside, asking him why he hadn’t spoken a word yet. Malcolm hadn’t realised he’d kept quiet, really, but even as that doctor asked to tell him, he had been unable to produce a sound. He’d parted his lips, had wanted to explain that there really was nothing he could say that would make anyone understand, but no sound had left his throat.

The psychiatrist had written something down in his file, and Malcolm had rolled onto his side, away from him, and pretended to fall asleep.

It was simply easier. It was easier avoiding everyone, easier avoiding their gazes, because he knew that if he were to connect, they’d start asking questions. How? Why? When? What? Malcolm just … couldn’t. He couldn’t deal with the questions and he couldn’t deal with the answers, because he couldn’t deal with the events that had happened. He could barely wrap his own head around it all, so how the hell was he supposed to make them understand?

Besides, he thought bitterly, he did not want to hear anyone utter the words ‘I understand’. No one could. They would be lying if they said they did.

When his mother returned to his room after the psychiatrist had left, she sighed and brushed a hand through his hair, while he did as he thought was best; he pretended to be asleep.

-x-

**Watkins entered the room again a few hours later – or had it been a day yet? Longer? – and Malcolm hated that his heart skipped a beat with hope when he saw the blanket tucked underneath his arm. No matter how much he rubbed his hands across his arms, he just couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers anymore. He couldn’t feel his toes anymore either.**

**The sight of a blanket shouldn’t fill him with such elation, and yet it did.**

**What alarmed him, however, was the cost. One didn’t have to be a profiler to know everything Watkins offered came with a price. Malcolm’s gaze automatically flickered to the red stain underneath the wooden chair. The funny thing was that Watkins did have a point. Humans had always been hunters and, once they had settled, they had begun to cultivate their own crops and livestock to consume. But one small rabbit had Malcolm filled with dread and fear and – no. He stopped his own train of thought. Watkins was getting in his head and he couldn’t let him.**

**“I figured you could use this.” Watkins held out the blanket for Malcolm to take – which he did, gingerly, and with shaking hands. He’d reached a point in time his limbs no longer stopped shaking, from the cold, from fear, from the lack of medication. Malcolm swallowed heavily, waiting on Watkins to start laughing and snatch the blanket from his grip.**

**Only when Watkins sat down about seven feet away did Malcolm dare wrap the blanket around his shoulders. The warmth it gave had him sigh softly, his eyes fluttering shut. He wanted nothing more than to lay down, curl in on himself, and sleep, but as long as Watkins was in the same room as him, he needed to stay vigilant.**

**“You remind me of your father,” Watkins said. His gaze was penetrative, as if he could look right into his head, and Malcolm felt acutely exposed. He forced himself not to move, though, refusing to flinch under his gaze. “There’s something in your eyes …” He drifted off, lost in thought.**

**Malcolm had no idea what he was talking about. It couldn’t be anything psychical, because he’d always considered himself lucky to have blue eyes while those of his father were brown. He also didn’t have his murderous tendencies, so he liked to believe they didn’t share a homicidal look on their face. No, Malcolm realised Watkins simply saw what he wanted to see.**

**“For years, the cops have been after me,” Watkins said then, snapping out of his thoughts. Malcolm shifted where he sat, pulling the blanket even tighter around his shoulders, but stayed quiet. Sensation was slowly returning to the ends of his limbs. Watkins reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out a knife and a bright, green apple. “And then you came along …”**

**“I saw the closet your grandmother locked you in.” Malcolm wasn’t sure why he engaged in this type of conversation, or why he brought up the closet. He watched, meticulously, as Watkins remained undisturbed and began to peel the apple. He cut off a small piece and ate it. “I saw the scratch-marks,” Malcolm pressed on.**

**“Yes,” Watkins said, nodding slightly. He chewed the piece of apple earnestly, as if he wanted to savour as much taste as possible. Malcolm was starting to think Watkins wanted to goad him, wanted to make him jealous of the food in his hand. “I was a difficult child.”**

**It was strange having this kind of conversation while tied to the floor with a metal chain around his ankles and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders to get warm. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine having this conversation in an interrogation room, with the other party chained to a table instead. Malcolm wasn’t sure it was a good idea to go down this lane, to breach subjects that might set off an unstable serial killer, and yet this was a chance he could not let pass; a chance to gain insight into the mind of John Watkins.**

**“A difficult child?”**

**“It’s hard growing up with a mother or father,” Watkins explained. His gaze was fixed on the apple in his hand, still cutting off pieces and eating them, right up until the moment he cut off a piece and threw it at Malcolm instead. Malcolm caught it, hesitated, but then ate it. “I rebelled, as so many children do who miss a steady hand, but my grandmother saved me.”**

**“By locking you in a closet?” Malcolm’s eyebrows shot up. He tried to form an image of what Watkins’ childhood must have been like, what happened to make him the person he was today, but it was damn hard visualising a young, scared boy locked in a closet and feeling sorry for him, not as that same boy now sat, all grown up, in front of him, looming over him like a dangerous shadow.**

**“My grandma was a good woman.”**

**“Your grandmother is insane,” Malcolm couldn’t help but snap, only for realisation to dawn upon him, but by that time, it was too late. Malcolm’s eyes widened, the bottom of his stomach shifting away, as Watkins jumped up onto his feet and closed the distance between them. He hit Malcolm across the face with the back of his hand. My grandma was a good woman, he’d said. Was.**

**Malcolm kept his head low, breathing hard and fast as a sharp pain blossomed across the side of his face. Again. Blood trickled from his lip, down his chin. Again. He would have laughed if the situation wasn’t so grave.**

**“She’s dead?” he couldn’t help but ask.**

**Watkins grabbed a hold of Malcolm’s shirt and hauled him upright, forcing him up on his feet. His warm breath stunned Malcolm, as did the frenzied look on his face. Malcolm’s hands latched onto Watkins’ wrists, trying to push them away, trying to free himself, but he lacked the strength. In fact, he was pretty sure that if Watkins were to let go, he’d just fall back down, because for the past few days – or however long Watkins had been keeping him prisoner already – he’d barely had anything to eat or drink. His body was starving and freezing. And, goddammit, he craved his pills!**

**“They arrested her,” Watkins hissed through gritted teeth, his eyes wide and unblinking. “They took her away, locked her in a cell, and let her rot.” Malcolm flinched at each word, spit landing on his face. “An old, poor woman. She never stood a chance!”**

**Old and poor weren’t words he would have used to describe her. Demented, delirious, violent, and terrifying, amongst other things, but Malcolm was smart enough not to voice that thought. He tried calming the furious beating of his heart and the frantic heaving of his chest, but his body remained in panic-mode for as long as Watkins kept a hold of him.**

**“I’m sorry–” He needed to force the words out, “–about your grandmother.”**

**“I don’t believe you.” Watkins let go of him then, took a small step back, and before Malcolm understood what was about to happen, before he could even think about stopping him, he cut the knife he still held in his hand clean across Malcolm’s stomach. “That’s for her,” he roared.**

**The pain was instant, hot and raw. Malcolm fell to his knees and cradled his stomach, blood dripping onto his hands. The cut wasn’t deep, wasn’t meant to cause irreparable damage, but it was deep enough to make him bleed like he’d been gutted. Deep enough to hurt like a bitch. He cursed under his breath and squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to try and get hold of the pain, to get it under control, but his body was still in panic-mode and his skin felt as if it were on fire.**

**“Grandma would have liked Dr. Whitley,” Watkins said. Malcolm blinked and looked up, finding Watkins sitting back on his chair, wiping the blade across the sleeve of his vest before continuing to eat the apple, like nothing had happened. “She, too, would have loathed to see him produce such a weak son.”**

**He couldn’t bring himself to give him any more attention. Malcolm looked down and saw the cut was about eight inches long. It needed stitches, it needed to be cleaned and disinfected and stitched up, but he knew none of that would happen. His heart beat wildly inside his chest and he felt sick to his stomach, the small piece of apple threatening to come back up.**

**“What do you want?” he forced out. A thin layer of sweat covered his skin. Sweat and blood. “Why are you keeping me here? Just to have a bit of fun?”**

**Watkins stared at him, his lips two thin lines. “There’s nothing funny about this.”**

**Well, at least they could agree on that.**

**-x-**

Malcolm absently rubbed a hand across his stomach. A thick bandage was wrapped around it, around the cut Watkins had so generously given him. It had healed partially during the rest of his captivity, despite the edges of the cut being chafed and bruised, ragged and dirty. It was a miracle it hadn’t grown infected, but it still hurt like hell, mostly because the doctors had reopened some of the wound, removed scarred skin and stitched it up again, to avoid more damage. Malcolm hadn’t seen the cut yet, always looked away or closed his eyes when nurses came to change his bandages, but he imagined it looked hideous.

The IV was beginning to get on his nerves. It bothered him when he wanted to go to the bathroom and it bothered him when he lay in bed. It also annoyed him that no one told him what exactly was in it. Medication to get strong again, they always said.

And then there was the constant presence of his mother. He loved her, and he appreciated her concern, her constant vigilance, how she always asked the doctors if he would be alright and what their plans were, but Malcolm also hated all of that. It made him feel like a small child who couldn’t take care of himself, and he hated that that was actually the truth.

He couldn’t even speak.

It had been seven days since Gil had found him, and he hadn’t been able to say a single word yet. At times, he didn’t want to talk, wanted to close himself off from the world, sleep and forget everything that had happened, but sometimes he did want to – if only to scream and yell and rage – but no sound ever left him.

It was on the eighth day that Gil entered his room, politely asked Jessica to leave, and moved to stand at the end of Malcolm’s bed. He had a dejected look on his face, his dark eyes full of concern. His hands curled around the metal frame of the bed, to keep them from shaking, Malcolm saw.

“The doctors are worried,” Gil started. He didn’t look at Malcolm long, barely connected gazes with him, and Malcolm felt annoyance creep up his spine. More than his mother’s concern, he hated how everyone around him treated him as if he were made of fragile glass, threatening to crack and shatter with every small movement. “And honestly, I’m worried, too.”

Malcolm scratched at the bandage around his arm, the one with the IV. His annoyance slowly turned to frustration.

“Malcolm,” Gil said with a sigh. “Why won’t you talk to us?”

Parting his lips, Malcolm wanted to reply, but again, no sound left him. He watched Gil, watched how tightly his hands were wrapped around the frame of the bed, how tense his shoulders were, and the frown that creased his brow. He knew Gil’s concern was genuine, that he only wanted to help, but all that concern merely angered him. Malcolm balled his hand, the one that wasn’t broken into a fist, his nails threatening to break skin.

“Is there anything we can do?” Gil asked after a moment of silence.

“How–” It was the first sound he’d produced in days. His throat felt dry and sore, and talking felt unnatural. As if he’d forgotten how to speak, how to produce words, how to form syllables. Malcolm swallowed heavily and stared at his hands for a moment. “How long was I with him?”

The corners of Gil’s lips twirled upwards ever so slightly when he heard Malcolm’s voice, but then the question registered and the brief flash of alleviation was quickly consumed by apprehension. “I’m not sure you should focus–”

“You asked me–” He wished he had some water nearby. His voice was hoarse. “You asked me what you could do to help me. I want you to tell me the truth.”

Gil’s lips became two thin lines, hesitation flashing across his eyes, but then he answered. “Thirty-five days.” His gaze was now firmly locked with Malcolm’s, wanting to gauge his reaction. “Five weeks.”

“Five weeks,” Malcolm echoed hollowly. He wanted to look at Gil, wanted to lock gazes with him and allow him to see every emotion passing through him – disbelief and anger, suffering and bewilderment, disappointment and shame, doubt and fury – but he simply … couldn’t. Closing his eyes, Malcolm latched onto the emotions that felt the easiest. Anger. Fury. Feelings of betrayal and outrage. “Five weeks that man … tortured and tormented me, because you couldn’t find me.”

“Malcolm …” Gil’s voice was barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

“And even now–” Malcolm continued, finally able to lock gazes with him, uncaring of the tears that threatened to evade him, “–he’s out there. Even now, he’s free, while I’m here, trapped.” The more he spoke, the angrier he became. This was why he hadn’t spoken a word yet. This was what he’d feared would happen. “I’m stuck in this bed, stuck with this goddamn IV–” He tore the plastic tubes from his skin, “–stuck with people swarming around me like I’m goddamn breakable, wondering what I’ve been through, but too damn scared to ask. I’m done with it!” He threw his blanket away from his body and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

Gil rushed towards him. “Malcolm–”

“No!” He was well aware of the fact that he was yelling, that nurses might hear and come running in, curious and concerned about what was going on, but he didn’t care. “I want you to stop being here all the time, and be out there finding that … maniac!” He stood, ready to leave this room, in desperate need for fresh air – he hadn’t had any in weeks – only for his knees to give out beneath him.

He crashed to the floor, his legs lacking the strength to keep him upright, and he fell onto his already broken hand. A pained cry burst from his lips, and Malcolm rolled onto his back, his eyes squeezed shut, his entire body hurting. Gil was at his side instantly, his hands grabbing hold of Malcolm’s shoulders, steadying him, wanting to calm him, but all Malcolm felt was restriction. Chains. Pain. Watkins.

“Malcolm–”

“Get out,” he snapped.

The door burst open, two nurses rushing in.

“What happened here?” one demanded to know.

“Malcolm, please–” Gil tried again.

“I said, get out!”

One nurse helped Malcolm sit up, her hand supporting his broken hand, her other checking the fresh bruise already forming at the side of his chin from falling. The other nurse made Gil leave, forcefully guiding him outside, much to his dissatisfaction, ignoring his words of objection. She closed the door behind them once they stood outside in the hall.

“What happened?” the nurse still sitting with him asked with a soft voice. A caring voice. She grabbed a bandage from the bedside table and pressed it to his underarm, where he’d pulled out the IV. Malcolm hadn’t realised blood had trickled down the skin there. “It’s never smart ripping out your IV, you know,” she said as she threw him a faint smile.

It was all Malcolm needed. A faint, but kind smile. Tension seeped from his muscles and air he hadn’t realised to be holding in escaped him. Sitting there, on the floor, with a nurse tending to his injuries, the other having gone to find a doctor, Malcolm suddenly felt ridiculous. He’d behaved childishly, stupidly, had not only ended up hurting himself, but Gil, as well. Probably.

Shit.

Sighing, Malcolm wondered what the Lieutenant was now thinking. “I’m an ass,” he muttered, more to himself than to the nurse.

But she’d heard and shrugged in response. “Nothing that can’t be fixed,” she said.

He wasn’t sure about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: I am particularly proud of the line “I was a difficult child" as said by John Watkins. I wrote the first few chapters during the winter break, so I wrote that line before the 11th episode was aired. I absolutely jumped when he said it on that episode XD Just wanted to share that little bit of useless and random information.


	5. Psychosomatic

**He couldn’t stop shaking.**

**Laying in the corner of the room, curled in on himself and holding onto the blanket as if he were holding onto dear life itself, Malcolm wondered when this pain would finally dull. The skin near his stomach burned, his lip was throbbing, and his head hurt. He felt hungry and thirsty, and his muscles ached. And he couldn’t stop fucking shaking! Closing his eyes, wishing for sleep, for oblivion, Malcolm instead found his mind constantly drifting to one thought; his pills. He’d always known he’d grown too dependent on them, that he should cut back on them, try and get through the day without them, and through the night, and now he regretted never pushing through.**

**He supposed he had his father to thank for that.**

**His heart beat too fast against his ribs.**

**Malcolm tried not to focus on the incessant thudding inside his chest, but he felt trapped. Not trapped in this room, really, but in his body. He was aware of every small change, every small deficiency – the too fast rhythm of his heart, the tension in his muscles, the aching of his stomach, the thin layer of sweat sticking to his skin. His mind wouldn’t slow down either, his thoughts going too fast for him. Malcolm couldn’t make sense of them anymore, couldn’t think straight anymore.**

**The room spun around him, dizzying him – or was it the other way around? Rubbing a hand across his face, trying to rub away the tiredness, Malcolm tried focusing on the sun outside, tried feeling its warmth, tried deducing what time of the day it was and tried remembering what day it was.**

**It was pointless.**

**What frightened him more than anything, though, wasn’t the loneliness taking a hold of him. It wasn’t the fact that he kept wondering if anyone would ever find him or continuously hoping Watkins wouldn’t just leave him here to die. It wasn’t the fear of dying from starvation or dehydration either. What frightened him more than any of that was this goddamn silence. He heard his own blood whizzing through his veins. He heard the beating of his heart and his lungs drawing breath. He heard his muscles strain and his bones creak.**

**It became deafening.**

**Malcolm pressed his hands to his ears as if that would numb his own body, but of course it didn’t. Desperate, tired, hungry and thirsty, he began thumping his foot to the floor, just to produce a sound. He drummed his fingers against the wooden wall and clicked his tongue. He rattled his metal chains and hummed a song.**

**He felt like he was going mad.**

**His vision blurred around the edges.**

**His mouth felt dry.**

**Malcolm rubbed his hands together in a pointless attempt to keep them warm, but the cold had already chilled him to his core. The tips of his fingers were raw and bloody from trying to unlock the metal chains around his ankles. There wasn’t an inch of his body that didn’t hurt or ache, that didn’t burn or sting.**

**Malcolm felt like he was going mad – or perhaps he already was.**

**-x-**

**It was difficult differentiating between what was real and what wasn’t. There were moments where Malcolm heard voices, as if someone whispered something into his ear. Sometimes he even felt a warm breath breathing down his neck. Each time, he’d startle and push himself into a sitting position, frantically looking around, thinking someone had found him, but there was never someone there.**

**Other moments, he felt a hand on his arm, squeezing slightly, offering support, comfort, and Malcolm would pull himself away from the touch, but there was never someone there.**

**His consciousness and unconsciousness were blending together. He couldn’t tell anymore whether he was awake or asleep. His dreams felt as real as his reality – but reality felt surreal. Malcolm’s head hurt, his skull seemingly threatening to split open with every beat of his heart. Pressing his hands to his temples offered temporary relief, but after a while, Malcolm wanted nothing more than to pull out his hair.**

**During the night, his father stood by the door, watching him. When he reached out to him, his hands shaking, tears spilling from his eyes (tears of fear or pain or anger or desperation – Malcolm couldn’t tell anymore), his father disappeared with only an echo of his laughter lingering inside the room.**

**That was when he pressed two fingers into the cut near his stomach; to feel pain, because pain was the only thing he had left that was real without doubt. Pain was the only thing grounding him, tying him to reality, reminding him.**

**Reminding him that all this was real and that no one had found him yet.**

**Pain was the only thing keeping him sane.**

**-x-**

**The door opened and someone entered.**

**Malcolm presumed it was Watkins only because he’d stopped believing someone would find him a long time ago. And because the man who had entered roughly grabbed hold of his hand, forcing him to stretch out his arm, and dug five fingers into his skin, bruising him. Malcolm wanted to react, wanted to pull his hand free and tell him to stop doing whatever it was he planned to do, but he lacked the strength.**

**And the will. Nothing but a moan escaped his lips.**

**His vision blurred. Sounds drifted in and out. Malcolm couldn’t focus, couldn’t think, couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on – until it was too late. Watkins didn’t say anything. He simply kept a firm hold of Malcolm’s wrist and injected a needle into his arm. Malcolm barely even felt the sting of it. He barely registered what was going on.**

**Feeling sick and nauseous and tired, all he knew was that unconsciousness called to him. He let it swallow him, needing the void it offered. He needed to _not_ feel anything for a moment, _not_ know anything, _not_ live.**

**Darkness** **came at him from the ground up, making his body feel heavy and his mind numb.**

**A relieved sigh escaped him as his surroundings disappeared.**

**The pain disappeared.**

**And then there was nothing.**

**-x-**

**The pain wasn’t so sharp anymore. That was the first thing Malcolm became cognizant of when consciousness returned to him. Every muscle still ached, his bones still felt so goddamn heavy, and his head was throbbing, but it was all … bearable. Blinking open his eyes, he slowly let his vision adjust to the brightness of the room, only to find John Watkins sitting on the chair, with his legs crossed, his hands folded casually in his lap, and his attention firmly fixed on his prisoner.**

**Malcolm pushed himself into a sitting position, groaning as he did so.**

**The skin hurt where Watkins had injected him with something. Malcolm swallowed heavily and wondered if he really wanted to know what had been inside that syringe.**

**But then his attention slipped to another odd thing inside the room.**

**Before him, within reach, stood a plastic bottle of water – he suddenly remembered how thirsty he felt – and two small, orange medication-bottles. They had his name written on them, as well as the name of Dr. Ledeux, his psychiatrist, and what was inside them. They were bottles that came from his bathroom, which meant Watkins had been inside his** **apartment.**

**It was a terrifying thought and Malcolm couldn’t help but think about Sunshine – which was a ridiculous notion. He shouldn’t worry about his bird when he was being kept hostage by a madman who extracted pleasure from torturing him. More terrifying thoughts poured into his head, not helping him with the headache, but he couldn’t stop himself from imagining all possible worst case scenarios. What if Ainsley had been there when Watkins had broken into his home? What if his mother had been there? Gil?**

**He stopped himself, quietened his mind, and reached for one of the bottles. His hand shook, and Malcolm pretended Watkins didn’t see.**

**_Diazepam_ , he read.**

**A** **small voice near the back of his head told him to open the bottle and take one. Maybe even two. He knew he’d feel calmer then, less anxious, but he wasn’t sure taking any would help in the situation he found himself in. An even smaller, darker voice told him to swallow them all, but Malcolm ignored that idea. Still, his fingers clenched around the bottle, every inch of his skin crawling with want.**

**“Who would have thought–” Watkins said, watching him with sharp eyes, “–Dr. Whitley’s son is nothing more than a junkie.”**

**The words felt like a knife to his chest, hurting almost as much as the physical cut to his stomach. Malcolm clenched his jaw shut and set down the bottle after considering for a moment to throw it to the other side of the room where he wouldn’t be able to reach it anymore, but his own limbs refused.**

**That was when he noticed something else. They weren’t alone.**

**Malcolm watched a rabbit hop from one side of the room to another. His heart skipped a beat, his chest growing tight.**

**“I’m not …” There really was nothing he could say that wouldn’t be a lie, and Watkins would know. “You’ve been to my home.”**

**Watkins scratched at his beard. “Yes,” he replied after a few seconds of silence. “The cuffs to the bed were unexpected.”**

**Sitting on his knees, the chains cutting into the skin around his ankles, hurting with every movement he made, Malcolm lowered his head, his hair falling before his face, offering him a moment to compose himself. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. In and out. In and out.**

**This wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have. He didn’t want to talk about his home with Watkins. He didn’t want to talk about his family, not even about his father. There were many things he wanted to ask Watkins about the Surgeon, but he knew he wouldn’t give him the answers he was looking for, if only to spite him.**

**“Do you know what I’m going to ask of you?” Watkins asked then.**

**He sat so comfortably in that chair, so relaxed, that Malcolm wanted to jump up and pull him off, but at this point in time, he knew he probably couldn’t even stand, let alone assault a known serial killer who’d made it his mission in life to haunt him.**

**His gaze slipped to the rabbit sitting in the corner, its little nose sniffing, its feelers quivering. Its big, brown eyes seemed to be fixed on Malcolm.**

**“Of course you do,” Watkins replied in his stead. “You might be a common junkie, but you’re not an idiot.” He stood, calling Malcolm’s attention back to him, and approached. He crouched in front of him, reached into his pocket – Malcolm held his breath – and pulled out a knife – Malcolm continued to hold his breath. “I’m going to give this to you,” Watkins explained, twirling the weapon between his fingers. “You’re not going to try anything stupid, are you?”**

**Malcolm shook his head. Panic folded around his heart like an icy claw. “I don’t want it,” he said with a shaking voice.**

**Watkins’ hand shot out and grabbed hold of Malcolm’s chin, bruising him. “Be a man,” he hissed. He dragged the tip of the knife down the side of Malcolm’s face, not hard enough to cut, but hard enough to warn him he could. “If you want to eat anything anytime soon, you will have to kill the little rabbit.” He shoved Malcolm’s head back suddenly, knocking it against the wall and using enough force to daze him.**

**Malcolm gasped as a sharp pain blossomed near the back of his head and pressed a hand to the bump that was already forming. The edges of his gaze darkened momentarily, and by the time he’d blinked away the haziness, the looming darkness threatening to pull him under, Watkins sat back on his chair.**

**The knife lay in front of him.**

**The rabbit was still watching him.**

**“Your father showed you how,” Watkins said, nodding at the weapon. “I showed you how.”**

**Malcolm swallowed heavily, swallowing down the surge of desperation that forced its way to his throat. “No,” he replied stubbornly. A flash of anger crossed his captor’s face, but Malcolm pushed on, refusing to play these manipulative games he threw his way. “No, I won’t do it.”**

**“Well–” Watkins stood and headed to the door, “–I guess you’ll starve then.”**

-x-

It was a large office with a big window letting in bright sunlight. Malcolm closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the warmth, thinking he could almost disappear between the rays of light, only for the doctor to clear his throat, calling for his attention. And that of his mother. Malcolm opened his eyes and looked at her for a moment, noticing she seemed older. Dark circles around her eyes made her look tired and she had more wrinkles around her lips.

Dr. Blake sat on the other side of the desk. “Thank you for coming so soon,” he said. For the past few days, Malcolm had seen the older man wearing the white coat coming in and out of his room, checking his vitals, asking him how he was doing, but never longer than two minutes. And yet he smiled at him as if they were old friends.

“Of course,” his mother said, inclining her head. Her long, dark hair fell over her shoulders. “What did you want to talk to us about?”

“Your son’s medical condition.”

Malcolm nearly rolled his eyes – he would have if his head didn’t hurt as much as it did. It seemed not an hour passed where it wasn’t either pounding or throbbing or aching or threatening to split open despite the pain medication he was on. Psychosomatic pain, the doctor had called it, which meant it was imaginary. Malcolm had felt acutely attacked despite knowing he was probably right.

His mother shifted in her seat, her grip on her purse tightening. “Is there a problem?” She wanted to sound calm, but the edge to her voice betrayed nervousness. Then again, she always seemed nervous lately, at least around him.

Malcolm looked away from her, guilt flooding his chest, tightening around his heart. He didn’t want to imagine the terror she must have felt during his weeks of … absence, didn’t want to imagine how scared she must have felt upon hearing he’d been kidnapped. A few times, he’d wanted to ask her about it and tell her he was sorry for putting her through this, but like so very often lately, the words had died on his tongue.

“There isn’t a problem,” Dr. Blake reassured her, smiling kindly at her. “In fact, your son is doing well.” He looked at Malcolm now, his smile unfaltering, but Malcolm noticed his hands laying folded on the desktop tensed ever so slightly. He’d been trained to notice. “Your wounds are healing well,” the doctor said, addressing his patient directly now. “You’ve gained a bit of weight and we’re cutting back on the painkillers.” He paused for a moment, as if expecting Malcolm to reply something, but when the silence dragged on, he moved to lean forward, his smile disappearing. Nothing but sincere concern remained in his gaze. “How are you feeling right now?”

The smile that curled the edges of his lips upward was fake, and the doctor knew. Still, Malcolm pushed on. “I’m feeling fine.”

The doctor nodded. “There are no medical reasons anymore for you to stay here.”

His mother shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “You want to discharge him?”

“No,” Dr. Blake answered. “Not exactly.”

His mother grew impatient. “What do you mean then?” she demanded to know.

This time, it was the doctor who shifted uncomfortably. These kinds of conversations had been taught to him during College, Malcolm knew. These conversations had probably happened between these walls a hundred times already, but the doctor felt conscientious – Malcolm could tell by the tense muscles near his shoulders, his furrowed brow, and the way he licked his lips. Jessica Whitley had that kind of effect on people; she wasn’t an easy woman after all.

“I’ve been talking to Dr. Simmons, our resident psychiatrist, and we agree that Malcolm isn’t ready yet to return home. He still needs too much care.”

His mother frowned. “But you just said–”

“Come on, Mother, don’t you get it?” Malcolm snapped, rolling his eyes. He ignored the disapproving look his mother threw him for his disrespectful tone and ignored the surprised look the doctor threw him, because this was probably the most he’d said to either of them since arriving at the hospital. “They want to transfer me to a psychiatric hospital.”

Horror and shock flitted behind his mother’s eyes. “No,” she gasped.

“That is what I’m talking about,” Dr. Blake confirmed.

“No,” his mother repeated more sternly this time. “I disagree. My son still needs too much medical attention and–”

“Don’t you understand?” Malcolm ran a hand through his hair, and then across his face. He felt so tired suddenly – no, scratch that, he felt exhausted. His eyes fluttered shut and he inhaled sharply, trying to keep his mind quiet, to keep away unwanted thoughts growing inside of him, cutting him like a knife cutting into his skin, physically hurting him. _Psychosomatic_ _pain_ , the doctor would call it. _Imagined_. “Your son is broken, Mother.”

“Malcolm–” the doctor started, but Malcolm didn’t want to hear it.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” he argued. His gaze flickered from the doctor to his mother, finding nothing but concern on their faces. Concern and confusion and vigilance. “Malcolm Bright needs a psychiatric hospital, because John Watkins broke him.” The sunlight hurt his eyes and Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut. Flashes of a knife startled him, the metal glistening before him. He opened his eyes again and felt the weight of the weapon in his hand. Blood dripped from his fingers. “And now he needs to be locked up like his father.”

His stomach hurt, sharp pain flaring up, like someone had just cut him again. His white T-shirt slowly turned red. Malcolm swallowed heavily and pressed a hand to his lips, to keep himself from throwing up. And from screaming.

“You need to stay calm, Malcolm,” the doctor warned.

His hands shook.

His mother reached out and folded a warm, soft hand around his wrist. “Malcolm, honey,” she whispered to him. “Calm down.”

His hair stuck to his forehead and sweat pricked his eyes. Frustrated, Malcolm wiped it off of his brow. “Like father, like son,” he whispered with a tremulous voice. When he let his hand fall back to his lap, he noticed it wasn’t sweat he’d wiped away, but blood. It stuck to his fingers, thick and warm.

“Don’t say that,” his mother reprimanded him. “You are nothing like your father.” For a moment, her grip on his wrist tightened to the point it hurt. “We only want what is best for you.”

His mother’s touch had become rough and unpleasant, and then it changed. Her long fingers grew shorter and thicker, her clean and polished nails became broken and dirty. Malcolm violently pulled his hand away from her – no, from John Watkins. When he looked up, his gaze wide and frantic, panic coursing through his veins like fire, he no longer saw his mother sitting next to him, but John Watkins. The man looked at him with a grin spreading across his bearded face. He threw his head back and laughed.

Malcolm jumped up on his feet, away from him, and knocked over his chair in the process.

Someone called out his name.

“We should continue this conversation another time.” Dr. Blake stood and walked around his desk, approaching him, but Malcolm didn’t understand. He didn’t know where they were, couldn’t recognize the room. He didn’t know who that man wearing the white coat was either, or the woman standing next to him.

“I don’t feel so well,” he breathed.

His knees felt weak.

The room spun around him.

The man said something, but Malcolm didn’t hear him anymore. He didn’t see him anymore either. His vision darkened and the ground shifted away from underneath his feet. No longer able to tell what was up or down, left or right, Malcolm reached for the edge of the desk, desperately searching for something to hold onto, but found nothing.

He toppled over, hitting the floor hard.

Then it all turned black.


	6. Dissociation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the corona-craziness, I bring a new chapter. Again, I want to warn for a degree of animal cruelty (there's another rabbit involved). You'd think I dislike them, but I really don't! Malcolm is, however, held captive by a madman so, mad things are bound to happen. Poor, poor little Whitley... 
> 
> PS: I have done some research on the psychology-parts, but I'm not a psychiatrist or psychologist, so please forgive any possible mistakes on those parts.
> 
> Enjoy!

His footsteps echoed between the walls, a deafening sound, but Gil didn’t slow down. He ignored the curious and disapproving looks from patients and their families who craved silence and peace, and instead hurried down the hallway towards the room he’d come to know so well. Outside the room, Dr. Blake stood with his back to Gil, so he couldn’t see his facial expression, but he could see Jessica’s, and panic was written oh-so clearly on her face.

“–can’t be a good idea,” she said.

Gil moved to stand next to her and, without a thought, put a comforting hand on her shoulder. He didn’t know what had happened, didn’t know what they were discussing; all that he knew was that Jessica had called him, distress causing her voice to quiver, and ordered him to come as soon as possible. Whatever had happened – and something _had_ happened – seemed serious and had distraught the strongest woman Gil knew. He instantly turned apprehensive.

Jessica threw him a faint smile, grateful that he was with her now.

“What’s going on?” he asked. His first thought had been that Malcolm had done something stupid, had put himself in danger, like he did so often and seemingly enjoyed doing, but he’d quickly discarded that idea. Malcolm wasn’t in any condition to move about much, let alone do something foolish. Although, he’d learned not to underestimate the kid.

“They want to transfer Malcolm to a psychiatric hospital,” Jessica explained. Her voice was filled with distress and disconcertion. “I think it’s a terrible idea.”

Dr. Blake rubbed a hand across his forehead, his eyes momentarily fluttering shut. “What Malcolm has gone through hasn’t only left physical wounds. Those are healing fine and he’s getting stronger again every day, but the mental wounds, they are … festering.”

“What he needs,” Jessica argued angrily, “is time.”

“Not in this case.” Dr. Blake offered them a sad smile. “Your son is suffering from severe PTSD, Mrs. Whitley.”

“He’s been suffering from that since he found out his father is a serial killer,” Jessica all but snapped.

Gil brushed a hand down her arm and, when she looked at him, looking for back-up, for more arguments to keep her son here, Gil felt guilty for not offering her what she wanted. “Please explain, doctor,” he said, turning his attention back to Dr. Blake and ignoring the look of betrayal in Jessica’s dark eyes.

“Mrs. Whitley,” Dr. Blake began cautiously and yet determined at the same time, “Your son is showing all the classic signs of PTSD. He has flashbacks and shows irritable and reckless behaviour. He barely sleeps and when he does, he has nightmares. His hands haven’t stopped shaking.”

It all felt so familiar. Gil heard the doctor sigh and he couldn’t help but sigh along with him. He’d seen the signs, had recognized them because he saw them nearly every day, but now they were worse. There was no denying that.

“But what concerns me the most,” the doctor added, “is that he shows severe dissociation.”

Gil frowned. “What is that?”

“Detachment,” the doctor explained. He folded his hands before his stomach and glanced at the closed door behind them. Malcolm was in there, and Gil wanted nothing more than to go inside and make sure he was okay, but he had to wait a few more minutes. He needed to hear what the doctor had to say, needed to know what _dissociation_ was. “Have you ever been caught in a daydream and when you return to the present, you have no idea what events just transpired around you?” the doctor said. “There are different levels of dissociation, but Malcolm is showing the most severe kind. He feels emotionally numb, often loses track of time, and lives through traumatic flashbacks.” He paused for a moment, allowing Gil and Jessica to take in his words. “I’ve spoken to our resident psychiatrist and he goes as far as to say Malcolm sometimes suffers a psychosis. He cannot tell the difference between what is real and what is not, and he often seems detached from his surroundings, from us, and from himself.”

Jessica rolled her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s not that bad,” she argued.

“Mrs. Whitley,” the doctor said with a grave voice. “Malcolm was talking about himself in third person.”

“No, he was–” Jessica swallowed the rest of her words as her gaze widened with realisation and perturbation. She pressed a hand to her lips. “You’re right,” she said, her gaze switching between the doctor and Gil – Gil who wanted to wrap his arms around her shoulders and pull her close, comfort her, tell her everything would be okay, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to lie. “My poor boy.”

“Can I talk to him?” Gil asked.

Tears had come to Jessica’s eyes, but she angrily blinked them away.

The doctor nodded. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll make sure the paperwork is all done for the transfer to the psychiatric hospital. Mrs. Whitley, you’ll need to sign a few forms.”

“Yes, anything.” Her voice trembled.

She offered Gil a watery smile, curled a hand around his for a moment, giving it a gentle squeeze – a silent plead to talk to her son and convince him that they all meant well with him – and then followed Dr. Blake down the hall. Gil watched her go, his heart breaking when she lowered her head and quietly wiped away the tears that had escaped her, because she didn’t deserve this. The Whitley-family didn’t deserve this. They had gone through enough already.

And yet here he stood, in front of a hospital room, knowing Malcolm was behind that closed door in a condition Gil wouldn’t have seen him in yet. Malcolm Bright was a smart, diligent, and resilient young man, had grown up into a fine young man despite everything that had happened during his childhood, but every man had a breaking point, even Malcolm Bright.

Inhaling sharply, steadying himself, preparing himself, Gil pushed open the door and stepped into the room. The curtains had been drawn shut, darkening the room, but he could still make out the silhouette of a man lying in bed, curled up with the sheets drawn up high to his chin.

Gil walked towards the curtains and threw them open, letting in sunlight, and heard a groan coming from the bed. Gil expected Malcolm to tell him to close them again, to leave him alone, like last time, but he’d decided, before he’d entered the room just now, that he wouldn’t let the young profiler turn him away, not again. It had been a mistake to leave last time, to let that nurse push him out, to leave Malcolm in such a horrible state of distress. It wasn’t a mistake he would make again.

“Hello, Malcolm,” he said as he walked over to the bed and sat down at the foot of it. He unbuttoned his coat, shrugged it off from his shoulders, and laid it across his lap. Malcolm was smart enough to know that meant he didn’t plan on leaving soon. “Can I get you something? Some water?”

With a groan, Malcolm pushed himself into a sitting position and rubbed a hand across his face. He looked exhausted, dark circles around his usually bright, but now dull blue eyes. His skin was grey, his lips pale, and his hair stuck to his sweaty forehead. He looked nothing like the young Whitley Gil knew.

“I’m fine,” Malcolm said. Even his voice was different and strange. It was too soft, too brittle. “I take it they’ve told you.”

Gil nodded.

“Then you know more than I,” Malcolm sighed. His hands lay in his lap, seemingly relaxed, but with every small movement he made, Gil noticed that they were shaking. Malcolm stared at them, too, with a dejected look on his face. “I don’t remember all of it.” He sucked in a deep, shaky breath. “I remember Dr. Blake telling me my wounds are healing well. I remember him talking about a psychiatric hospital, but then … Then it’s all a black hole in my mind.”

Gil placed a hand on Malcolm’s leg. “I’ve spoken to Dr. Blake,” he said. “I think this is for the best, Malcolm, to help you deal with everything that has happened, because right now, you’re not dealing with it at all. You’re running away from it.”

“How would you know?” Malcolm asked crudely. Anger flashed behind his eyes, and Gil realized he didn’t recognize that gaze anymore. It had changed too much.

“You’re right,” he said. “I can’t know what you’re going through right now. I can’t even begin to imagine the thoughts that go through your mind, or the feelings that are dragging you down, but I know _you_.”

Malcolm pressed his lips together until they were nothing more than two thin lines. He was clearly holding back words Gil knew were meant to push him away, but he wouldn’t let them. Malcolm needed him, needed his family, and, _goddammit_ , Gil would be there for him, whether he wanted him to or not. He owned it to him.

“This isn’t you,” he continued. “What Watkins did to you, it was meant to break you, but you’re stronger than him, kiddo. You’re stronger than any of us, have been ever since you were ten years old, ever since you saved my life.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Bitterness dripped from Malcolm’s tongue.

“It’s not gonna be easy.” Gil inclined his head. “I never said it was going to be easy, but you’re not alone. You’re not in this on your own. We’re gonna help you, in any way we can, but Malcolm, kiddo, you gotta let us help you.”

Malcolm stared at him, with those unrecognizable blue eyes of his. Walls were drawn up around him, and Gil knew he wouldn’t be able to get past his defences any time soon, but he wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what Watkins had put him through, because Malcolm wasn’t ready yet to talk about it, but Gil was many things, and a patient man was one of them.

“Fine,” Malcolm said after a short silence. “I’ll go to the psychiatric hospital.”

It was a start.

-x-

**He’d lost count of the hours that had gone by. It might have been twelve. It might have been twenty-four. It might have been more or less. Malcolm lay on the floor, with the blanket tightly wrapped around his body. The only sound was that of his breathing. He tried focusing on it, in and out, in and out, but his attention kept flicking around the empty room which didn’t feel so empty anymore.**

**The rabbit sat in a different corner of the room, still sniffling about, its feelers still shivering. Its little, dark eyes always seemed transfixed on Malcolm.**

**Two orange bottles stood in front of him. With shaking hands, Malcolm had reached for them half a dozen times already, but he’d never curled his fingers around them, Watkins’ voice echoing through his mind every time he was about to. _Nothing more than a junkie._**

**And then there was the hunting knife, with its wooden handle and partial serrated blade. Malcolm hadn’t touched it since Watkins had laid it in front of him, refused to, but his attention kept slipping towards it, the sharp blade pulling him in. Malcolm tried to resist it, tried not to look at it, but it was impossible.**

**His stomach growled.**

**The rabbit froze, startled by the sound.**

**Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut and cursed himself for already having emptied the small bottle of water. He felt hungry and thirsty, but he wasn’t going to give in. If Watkins wanted to starve him to death, then so be it.**

**He refused to do his bidding.**

**He refused to break.**

-x-

The Jacob Roy Psychiatric Hospital was one of the best in New York City, or so his mother said. Located on the Riverside Boulevard, most of the rooms offered a view of the Hudson River. Malcolm stood before the large window and stared at it, wondering if there was anyone inside this building who could actually appreciate such a view. Malcolm couldn’t care less, although he found that staring at the water calmed him.

The air inside the building was different. It felt dry inside his lungs.

The whole vibe of this hospital was different than the one he came from, making him regret agreeing to this, but then … What else was he supposed to do? He needed help, he knew this, but he felt like he had no say in his treatment whatsoever.

Perhaps that was for the best.

Sighing, he turned away from the window and stepped out into the hallway. Since this wasn’t a closed ward – _thank God_ – he was free to walk around a bit. His mother and Gil had left about an hour ago with a promise of returning soon, as well as Ainsley stopping by later today, but Malcolm wasn’t going to sit around and wait for them to come and go. 

It was time he took matters into his own hands, something he hadn’t done in a long time.

He was done sitting around, waiting for his feelings of pain, confusion, and anger to pass. He was done waiting for his frustrations, distraught, and fear to disappear. He didn’t recognize himself anymore, and he was sick of it.

That, and he wanted to go home.

Being surrounded by pale walls was becoming tiresome.

There were ten doors in the hallway, each having a number varying between four hundred and ten and four hundred and twenty, since they were on the fourth floor of the building. Malcolm wondered what the rest of the patients in this ward suffered from. Personality disorders? Addictions? Depressions? PTSD? Somehow, it was impossible to imagine that there were more people like him here, more victims of torture and torment at the hands of a madman, but then again, feeling all alone in this world was probably how everyone in this building felt.

A large window at the end of the hallway let in bright sunlight – so bright, it threatened to blind him. Malcolm squinted his eyes and saw that a woman stood there, looking out into the world, at the river. It seemed more people found the water calming. It was a view that _was_ appreciated after all.

She wore a long white dress, a nightgown perhaps, and had her arms crossed before her chest. Her long blond hair lay loosely across her shoulders. She seemed cold, Malcolm couldn’t but think, goosebumps dotting her arms, but her thoughts were somewhere else, so she didn’t seem to notice.

Malcolm halted, unsure if he should address her, if he should pull her from her thoughts, but then she turned her head and stared at him with impossibly dark eyes.

“Hi, there.” It was all that came to him, all he could say. Shifting on his feet, Malcolm weighed his options. He could turn around and leave, but that felt rude. Taking another step forward, however, closer to her, felt rude, too. “I see you’re enjoying the view.”

“No,” the young woman replied. “I’m not, but it’s either this or staring at white walls.”

“Not a difficult choice.” Malcolm smiled. He moved to stand on the other side of the window and gazed outside for a moment. New York City was covered with a thin layer of snow. “I’m Malcolm,” he said after a few seconds of silence.

“I know who you are,” she said without looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the river again. “You’ve been on TV, I’ve seen the reports.”

Malcolm swallowed heavily. His sister had mentioned something about the news-reports, but she hadn’t gone into detail about them, mostly because Malcolm hadn’t reacted to her conversational attempt for a connection. He’d only been at the hospital three days back then, he hadn’t yet been able to get any sounds out.

“I think it’s hardly fair you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

The woman’s gaze snapped back towards him, but her thoughts were shielded. It didn’t happen often Malcolm couldn’t get a feeling of the person standing before him. It was new and very unsettling. “Were you really kidnapped?” she asked, her head cocked sideways, her long blond hair falling behind her back. “Like really, _really_ kidnapped? Locked away and all that?”

Malcolm balled his hands into fists behind his back, so she wouldn’t see the tremor that settled in them. Just thinking about the metal chains around his ankles made the skin there hurt. “Yes,” he replied truthfully. “I was really, _really_ kidnapped.”

“Oh.” She lowered her gaze, brought a hand to her face, and bit down on her thumb.

Only now Malcolm realized how young she was. At first, she’d look mid-twenties, but now he wouldn’t guess her much older than eighteen.

“Don’t you want to tell me your name?” he tried again.

The girl shrugged and lowered her hand again. “I’m Mia,” she answered. “I’m here, because I was kidnapped, too.” A giant smile broke free across her face, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Malcolm wondered if that was what he looked like if he smiled. Empty. “I’m looking forward to our group-therapy-sessions. I’m sure we’ll have lots to talk about.”

She turned and walked away.

Only now Malcolm noticed she was barefooted. 

-x-

**When the lock of the door slid open, Malcolm pushed himself into a sitting position, ignoring the burning of his muscles. He groaned, swallowed away the bile that rose up his throat, and pulled the blanket over his shoulders again.**

**The rabbit in the corner of the room hopped away.**

**When Watkins entered, he halted as his eyes fell on his prisoner, and Malcolm wondered what it was he saw exactly. A thin, gaunt looking man? A sickly man with hollow eyes and dry, split lips? Whatever it was he saw, it seemed disapproving, because Watkins shook his head and sighed.**

**“You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that,” he said.**

**The corners of Malcolm’s lips twisted upwards ever so slightly, and he ignored the small drop of blood that trickled down his chin as a result, from a cut that had split open again. He watched, with as much focus as he could still muster – his mind was fogged with exhaustion, pain, hunger, and thirst – as Watkins approached and set down a new bottle of water in front of him.**

**“Don’t think I’ll reward your stubbornness again,” Watkins grumbled as he took a seat on the wooden chair again. “I just don’t want you to die from dehydration. I’m not done with you yet.”**

**It was enough to wipe the smile from his face. Malcolm rubbed a hand across his chin, wiping away the drop of blood that had trickled down his skin, and stared at the bottle of water. Every fibre of his being urged him to take it, to drink from it, his body craving the water, but Malcolm felt too stubborn and didn’t want to appear desperate. He refused to give Watkins that much pleasure.**

**“I’m quite tired of your plans with me.” His voice was hoarse.**

**Watkins chuckled. “I’ve barely even begun,” he said as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “But know that I’m equally as stubborn as you are.”**

**Malcolm wasn’t in the mood to play his games. “How long have I been locked in this room, chained to the floor?”**

**It was a question Watkins clearly hadn’t expected. His eyebrows shot upwards, eyes widening with surprise. “Does it matter?”**

**“It does to me.”**

**“They haven’t found you yet,” Watkins said. He leaned back against the chair and laughed, the kind of laughter that sent cold shivers down Malcolm’s spine. The kind that had a small, innocent animal quiver with fear. “I think it’s safe to say that they won’t find you any time soon. I told you, Little Whitley, that they wouldn’t be able to.”**

**“You underestimate them,” Malcolm argued.**

**“You overestimate them,” Watkins shot back. “If you’re depending on them for your survival, then you’re already lost.” He shook his head and scratched his beard. “People like us, Malcolm, we need to fend for ourselves.”**

**Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “People like us?”**

**“You know what I’m talking about.” Watkins stared right at him, into his eyes, and Malcolm felt brutally exposed, as if his every thought was exposed. “I’ve watched you grow up, Malcolm Whitley. How could I not? I needed to see what would become of Dr. Whitley’s son, and I wasn’t disappointed with what I saw.” He stood and moved closer, Malcolm hating that he kneeled in front of him, that he got so close. “You joined Quantico and became a profiler, to catch people like me, but you know what they say, don’t you? It takes one to know one.” The smile that appeared on his face brightened his whole face. “That’s when I knew Dr. Whitley had groomed you better than I gave him credit for.”**

**“I am _nothing_ like him,” Malcolm forced out through gritted teeth. “I am _nothing_ like you.”**

**“Give it time,” Watkins grinned.**

**It was on the spur of the moment that Malcolm grabbed the knife, and Watkins fell back, nothing but shock on his face, but Malcolm made no attempt to attack him, knew that it would be a losing battle anyway. Instead, he pressed the sharp blade to his throat and felt it cut into his skin.**

**Watkins watched him with wide, startled, confused eyes.**

**“Wouldn’t it be easier?” Malcolm asked. Blood trickled down the skin of his throat. He latched onto the new, sharp pain and ignored everything else – the pain to his abdomen, his ankles, his muscles, his face, his head. “It certainly would be for me.”**

**A huff of breath left Watkins, something between a laugh and a gasp. “No,” he said, head lightly shaking. His eyes were nothing more than two thin lines. Colour had drained from his face. For the first time since being taken, Malcolm was in control, and Watkins knew it. “It’s not in your nature to give up, Malcolm Whitley.”**

**“You think you know me,” Malcolm snapped angrily, and pressed the knife more tightly against his skin. More cutting pain flared up. He revelled at it, let himself drown in it, because for the first time in a long time, he felt alive and strong. It was a twisted sentiment, one that had his stomach knot together, but Malcolm pushed on. “You think because you knew my father that you now know me, but _oh boy_ , you are mistaken.”**

**“Perhaps you’re right,” Watkins said. He’d recovered from the confusion and found his balance again. Crouched in front of Malcolm, he stayed very still and kept his focus firmly latched onto the knife in Malcolm’s hand. “Perhaps you aren’t exactly like your daddy after all, but that doesn’t take away the fact that I see him in you.” His gaze raked across Malcolm’s form. “His intelligence, his stubbornness, his talent for manipulation.” He drummed his fingers against the floor. “Just like your father, you have a knack for pushing people around you like pawns on a chess board.”**

**Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut and refused to listen to any of it, because it wasn’t true. None of it was.**

**Or was it?**

**“You’re wrong,” he forced out. The words sounded strong and confident, but they felt wrong on his tongue. A lie. “My father has a twisted and broken mind. He takes pleasure from hurting others, but I’m not–” His eyes flitted open when he heard Watkins move. Expecting him to steal the knife from his grip, Malcolm shrunk back, but Watkins had moved away. With his gaze widening, he watched him capture the rabbit and, with one smooth movement, snap its neck.**

**He gasped and felt sick to his stomach, “ _No!_ ”**

**“Certain things in life can’t be changed,” Watkins explained. He dropped the dead rabbit before him and, as Malcolm was still filled with nothing but panic and dread, yanked the knife out of his hands. “The rabbit was destined to die, so it died.” Wiping away the little drops of blood from the blade, he locked eyes with his prisoner and threw him a cocky, pleased smile. “You’re destined to be your father’s son, and so you will.”**


	7. Twenty Yards

**“Excuse me?” Watkins’ words had been articulated with clearness, his voice sharp, but Malcolm still wasn’t sure he had heard him right. Refusing to get his hopes up, he needed his captor to say those words again. He shifted where he sat, the metal chains clattering in the process, and the idea that they might be removed made his heart skip a beat with joy.**

**“No funny business, though,” Watkins warned, pointing a knife at him. The weapon was meant to intimidate him, to warn him and advise him against trying any foolish ideas, but the warning barely registered. His heart continued to thump against his ribcage. “Or this will be the first and last time you get to leave this room.”**

**Malcolm nodded diligently. The idea of the chains being removed and then leaving this room excited him, but the idea of taking a shower thrilled him even more. His hands started to shake, but not with fear for once. Shuffling back, to give Watkins space to remove the chains – and because he didn’t want the man too close, his scent unsettling his stomach – Malcolm sighed with relief as the metal fell away from his ankles. The skin there was bruised, colours painting his skin ranging from blue to black, yellow to green and purple.**

**Watkins hoisted him up onto his feet and kept a firm grip on his upper arm. It wasn’t only to keep him from running right out of the door – not that Malcolm was in any condition to do any running – but to keep him on his feet, too, because he hadn’t stood in days, weeks even, and the muscles of his legs were unable to support him. His knees felt weak, his ankles hurt, and his feet burned with every step he took.**

**But he took them.**

**He was led through a narrow hallway and down a flight of stairs, the wood creaking beneath their weight, and Malcolm feared they would fall through. The walls were made of rotten wood and plastered with half-torn, flowery wallpaper. The air was moist and tasted funny, his lungs protesting with every inhale, and Malcolm coughed, but he kept on walking and felt stronger with every step that took him away from that room.**

**“Thank you,” he said quietly, the sentiment genuine. He wasn’t sure why he’d voiced the sentiment, but the words had left him, and Malcolm couldn’t help but think back to what Watkins had said earlier; how he manipulated people in his own way. His friendliness was a manner of manipulation, an attempt to evoke empathy and gain compassion – both of which Watkins was incapable of feeling.**

**“Don’t think I’m doing this for you,” Watkins grumbled as he pushed him through another hallway and towards a door near the back-exit. A filthy window gave Malcolm just enough view of what lay beyond the house; trees and nothing else. He doubted there were neighbours around he could alert if he screamed hard enough, so Malcolm kept quiet and abided his time.**

**He felt stronger again.**

**“** **You’re not?” he asked as Watkins opened a door to an old, nearly collapsed, filthy bathroom. Malcolm halted, lips pressed together, unsure if entering was such a good idea, because the floor was littered with shards of glass and porcelain. Watkins gave him another push, however, and Malcolm stumbled forward, wincing as the sharp edges of the debris cut into the soles of his feet.**

**“You stink,” Watkins explained. “It’s not pleasant coming to you like this.”**

**“Oh, I’m sorry for the discomfort,” Malcolm replied as he rolled his eyes. “Maybe if you emptied the bucket you gave me more often, that problem would be half-solved already.”**

**With the butt of his knife, Watkins poked him in the side, close to his wound, and chuckled when Malcolm gasped and groaned in pain. “Be glad I gave you a bucket,” he laughed cruelly.**

**Taking a moment to catch his breath, waiting for the pain to subside, Malcolm wrapped an arm around his middle and glanced around the room. He spotted a broken sink, a dirty bathtub with brown stains, and half a toilet that clearly hadn’t been in use for a few years at least. “How old is this house?” he couldn’t help but ask. The idea of actually stepping into the bathtub sent shivers of disgust down his spine.**

**“Old,” Watkins replied uselessly. “Now get undressed so you can take that shower already. I don’t have all day.”**

**Malcolm stared at the rusty bathtub and felt his stomach knot together. “I’m not sure–”**

**“Don’t nag,” Watkins snapped. He pushed past Malcolm, shoving him back in the process, and turned on the faucet. “See, princess, there’s hot water.” He stared at the bathtub, hands planted in his sides and shrugged. “I admit, it’s not the cleanest, but–”**

**Malcolm wasn’t listening anymore. His attention had slipped to the open door behind him, which led to a hallway, which led to the back entrance. There was nothing between him and the outside, and Malcolm’s muscles tensed at the idea of what could be. His throat turned dry and he swallowed heavily.**

**Watkins leaned over the tub to rub at a rusty stain, which was when Malcolm decided to fuck it all and _try_.**

**This was his first proper chance at freedom, and probably his last one, so he had to at least _try_. Without thinking about possible consequences, without fear or hesitation, nothing but determination filling his lungs, Malcolm spun around and ran into the hallway. The soles of his feet burned and blood dripped from the small cuts there, but adrenaline urged him onwards and numbed the pain spasming through his muscles.**

**The wood floor creaked beneath his bare feet. Behind him, there was a burst of noise. Watkins screamed, his footsteps thundering behind him, but Malcolm had already reached the back door and pushed it open with all the strength left in his body.**

**The icy air hurt his lungs and his head spun with the idea of finally getting away. Stumbling down two steps leading to a backyard, Malcolm focused on what was ahead; a treeline. If he could just get there, he could disappear. The leaves rustled loudly, wind whipping around the trees, and around Malcolm’s ears. It cut across his cheeks and made his eyes tearful.**

**Frozen grass crackled beneath his feet.**

**“ _Malcolm!_ ” Watkins roared.**

**Only twenty yards to go.**

**Malcolm ignored the pain flashing across his abdomen.**

**Only fifteen yards to go.**

**His heart beat in his throat and nausea threatened to make him retch.**

**“ _Malcolm!_ ”**

**Only ten yards to go and then–**

**A sudden sharp pain to the back of his thigh made him crash to the ground. Crying out, in pain and frustration and outright rage, Malcolm rolled onto his back, wanting to jump back onto his feet, wanting to keep on running, but he couldn’t. He _couldn’t_ , because a _knife_ was lodged into the back of his _leg_. His vision blurred around the edges, oxygen unable to reach his lungs, and Malcolm felt sick at the sight of blood running down his leg.**

**With a trembling hand, he reached for the weapon and pulled it out, which was probably a bad idea, but before he could even think of using the weapon against his captor, before he could even lift it, Watkins was on top of him and knocked it from his grip.**

**“** **You son of a bitch,” Watkins spat with pitch-black eyes full of fury. His hands folded around Malcolm’s shoulders, violently shaking him. Malcolm latched onto his wrists, to try and shove them away, to try and shove _him_ away, but whatever strength had returned to his limbs had already dissipated from them again. “You ungrateful son of a bitch,” he roared.**

**Gasping for air that never reached his lungs, Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut and tried to stay conscious despite darkness creeping towards him across his vision. “Watkins …” He was breathing hard and fast. His grip on Watkins’ wrists faltered. “I don’t …” When Watkins shook him again, he forced open his eyes and found the whole world tilting. “My leg …”**

**Watkins let go of him.**

**Gasping, his chest heaving, his lungs burning, Malcolm felt bile rise up his throat. He desperately tried to blink away the haziness consuming him, but the sight of his own blood pooling beneath him, colouring the green grass red, made his vision swim. His head felt light. “My leg …” he repeated, but Malcolm lacked the air or energy to complete that sentence. Swallowing heavily, trying to stay focused, trying to stay awake, he folded his hands around the frozen blades of grass and turned his attention to the bright, blue sky above him.**

**He stared at the watery sun barely giving off any warmth.**

**Watkins blocked his vision, hovering above him like a demon stealing his light and whatever warmth he could still feel. “That was foolish, Malcolm Whitley,” he said eerily calm before forcing Malcolm back onto his feet – Malcolm who screamed in agony, blood streaming down his leg.**

**He threatened to fall again, but Watkins refused to let him.**

**“I can’t,” he gasped, _begged_. Darkness swarmed around him like a thousand flies buzzing loudly and approaching rapidly. “Please … I _can’t_.”**

**“And whose fault is that?” Watkins growled as he forced his prisoner to walk, but Malcolm sunk through his legs, groaning as he did. Darkness swallowed him whole then, and the last thing he heard was Watkins' furious voice screaming his name. The last thing he felt were his rough hands grabbing him, trying to prevent him from falling.**

**Then it all went black.**

-x-

“This is nice.” Ainsley took in her brother’s new suite, nodding enthusiastically as she did, approving of the large TV Malcolm didn’t plan on using, liking the view Malcolm was already detesting, and enjoying the piece of cake she’d stolen from the tray of food Malcolm hadn’t planned on eating. “Mother really knows all the best places in New York.”

A smile that didn’t reach his eyes curved the edges of Malcolm’s lips upward. “Lucky me,” he said with a voice dripping with sarcasm.

Wiping off crumbs from her fingers, Ainsley turned around and looked him in the eyes. For the first time, Malcolm couldn’t help but think how familiar her brown gaze was, how inviting, because this was his sister, but her dark eyes also reminded him of his father. Which led him to think about Watkins. And about _her_. “I know this isn’t where you want to be,” she said softly, almost sadly. “But this is the best place for you right now.”

As much as he hated it, she was right. “I never meant to worry you all like this,” he said, the words leaving him without his permission, but he didn’t regret saying them. There were only a handful of people in this world Malcolm cared about and there were only a handful of people who could help him. It was time he stopped trying to push them away. “I never meant–”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Ainsley interrupted. “I’m just glad you’re accepting the fact that you need help. After what you’ve gone through …” Her voice drifted off and she stared at the ground for a moment, unsure of what to say next, which was when Malcolm realised she simply didn’t know what to say anymore.

She didn’t know what he’d gone through, no one did, because he couldn’t talk about it. The mere idea of speaking the words, of explaining, or attempting to explain, made him feel ill to his stomach. He didn’t want to burden them with this, because they were already burdened enough.

Sighing, Malcolm sat down on the edge of his bed and smiled timidly when Ainsley came to sit next to him. “I never even asked,” he started, feeling guilty, “how you and mother have been holding up?”

Ainsley reached for his hand, the one that wasn’t broken, and gave it a gentle squeeze. Her touch was warm, gentle, and soft, and yet Malcolm had to fight with every fibre of his being to not pull away. “Stop worrying about us,” she reprimanded him playfully, but her eyes brimmed with tears. Ainsley blinked rapidly, forcing them away, and smiled broadly.

“Mother looks older,” Malcolm pushed on. “And you look tired.”

Pulling back, Ainsley stared at her hands lying awkwardly in her lap, her fingers momentarily twitching. “Speak for yourself,” she tried airily, but when she looked back up, meeting her brother’s gaze, she no longer tried to hide her heartache. “We were really scared, Malcolm,” she admitted. “I’d never seen mother like that, so terrified and desperate.”

It was an image he found difficult to conjure up. His mother was one of the strongest women he knew – hell, she survived their father! She faced a world full of prejudice every day, because of him, but she had never once given up. She had raised them all alone, and she loved them, with all her heart, even after they had made choices she despised. Malcolm could still picture the look of horror on her face when he’d told her he was going back to see his father again. He could still picture that same look on her face when Ainsley had done the same.

“The first few days, we were hopeful,” Ainsley continued quietly. “But after a while it became hard to believe that … you know … We never gave up, _never_ , but it got harder and harder with every passing day, and mother–” She let out a heavy breath, her eyes fluttering shut. A tear rolled down her cheek. “She always had a drink nearby.”

That _was_ an image he could imagine.

“But you survived.” Ainsley sucked in a fresh breath of air, quickly wiped away the tear that had escaped her, and looked up at her brother. This time, her smile was warm and genuine. “Despite how he tried to break you, _you_ survived.”

Malcolm huffed out a bitter laugh. “Tried to,” he echoed hollowly. “He didn’t _try_ to break me, Ains, he succeeded.”

“No.” Nothing but determination echoed in her voice. Her gaze turned hard and stubborn. “That’s where you’re wrong.” She folded a hand around his upper arm, forcing him to look at her and hear her. It was at times such as these that Malcolm remembered how headstrong she could be. “You’re the strongest person I know. Do you know why I’m so sure of that?”

“No,” Malcolm answered, slightly annoyed. “But I’m sure you’ll tell me right now.”

“Because you’re my big brother.” Ainsley had a light-hearted grin plastered on her face. Malcolm was suddenly reminded of how young she was – too young to already have gone through so much. “And do you know how I know you’ll be okay?” The light-heartedness transformed into cheekiness.

“No,” Malcolm said again, his annoyance vanishing. This time he smiled, too. “But I’m sure you’ll tell me right now.”

Ainsley perked up, her shoulders squaring and her dark brown eyes lightening up. Malcolm couldn’t believe he’d thought them to be similar to their father. They were nothing like Martin Whitley. “Because you have me.”

-x-

**There had been a time Malcolm desperately searched for silly games to occupy his mind. He’d be counting the wooden slats on the ceiling or the nails in the floor, the cracks in the wall or the splinters coming from the wooden chair. He’d be counting seconds, just to distract himself, or made up lists of useless items. He’d sum up birthdays or try to think of the last ten Christmas presents he got from his mother.**

**Not anymore. Laying on his back, staring at the ceiling, Malcolm’s mind could barely come up with a decent thought, so he resorted to thinking about nothing at all. It was easier like this.**

**His escape-attempt had been nothing more than that; an attempt. A useless one at that. He hadn’t even made it twenty yards away from his own personal devil. For a moment, for one brief second, he’d felt strong again. Strength had returned to his muscles, air to his lungs, bravery to his mind, but all that had gone again.**

**All he could do, was lay there and not think of the pain throbbing throughout his body. Not think of the hunger and the thirst. Not think of his own blood sticking to his hands. The wound to his leg still bled whenever he moved too much, staining the wooden floor beneath him, so he resorted to not moving at all. It spared him from discomfort and pain.**

**Watkins had wrapped a bandage around his leg while he’d been unconscious. He’d probably dragged him up the flight of stairs, chained him to the lock bolted into the floor again, and stopped the bleeding. Those were thoughts Malcolm didn’t enjoy either. The idea of Watkins’ hands on his body, in any way, made his stomach churn uncomfortable.**

**So he thought of nothing.**

**It was simply easier.**

**-x-**

**The lock sliding open was what startled him from a depthless sleep. Or pulled him from unconsciousness. Honestly, at this point Malcolm couldn’t disconcert the difference anymore.**

**Pushing himself into a sitting position – with much difficulty, a groan falling from his lips as his leg protested – Malcolm leaned back against the wall and let his head rest against the wood. At this point, he lacked even the strength to keep his head from lolling sideways.**

**Watkins halted in the doorway, his gaze raking across Malcolm’s frail form, and huffed something under his breath.**

**Too much time had passed for Malcolm to know how long he’d been suffering from this madman’s madness. It was more than days, that he knew. Three weeks? Four? More? He honestly could not tell, which was driving him just as insane as the pain, both physically and mentally, was.**

**No one had come.**

**No one was coming.**

**Had they given up? Did they think him dead, perished by the hand of the Junkyard Killer? Images of his mother crying over his tombstone filled his mind. Images of Ainsley writing his eulogy made the bottom of his stomach shift away. Would his father even shed a tear if he heard his son was dead? Would Gil?**

**“You look a little pale,” Watkins said, pulling Malcolm from his thoughts. He stood behind the chair, his hands curled around the wooden back of it. Calluses covered his knuckles.**

**Malcolm couldn’t help but throw him an annoyed and pinched look, his nose wrinkling and his upper lip curling.**

**“Oh, don’t give me that look, Malcolm Whitley,” Watkins admonished. “You brought this on yourself.”**

**“I lost a lot of blood.” Malcolm’s voice was soft, and he wished he could sound stronger – what he really wanted, was to scream and rage – but at this point he felt too tired to try and appear vigorous. Watkins would look through the façade anyway. “I’m still bleeding.”**

**Watkins cocked his head sideways. “And how is that my fault?”**

**“ _You_ threw a _knife_ at me,” Malcolm growled through gritted teeth.**

**“ _You_ tried to run away.” Watkins walked around the chair and took a seat, which never boded well for Malcolm. It meant he wasn’t planning on leaving soon, that he wished to take his time for whatever was to come, and Malcolm simply wasn’t in the mood for it. Whatever _lesson_ came next, to prove he was like his father, would only suck more energy from him. Energy he simply didn’t have at this point.**

**Talking took too much energy, too. Malcolm sighed, lowered his head, and closed his eyes. His hair fell in front of his face, tickling his cheeks. It had grown longer during his captivity which annoyed him.**

**“Don’t worry,” Watkins said after a short silence. “A little stab-wound isn’t going to kill you.” Malcolm couldn’t help but laugh briefly, the very essence of this whole situation being a mess and feeling ridiculous. “You’re like vermin, really. I think I could throw a nuclear blast at you, and you’d survive.”**

**“Vermin,” Malcolm echoed with his eyes still closed. “Others would say survivor.” That was what he’d considered himself to be for a long time, what he’d convinced himself he was; a survivor. He’d needed to believe that, to get through Watkins’ torture and torment, but ‘ _vermin’_ felt like a more adequate description now.**

**“Is that why you tried to run away?”**

**“Are you here to talk?” Malcolm lifted his head and blinked open his eyes, needing a moment for his vision to adjust. Watkins was leaning forward, elbows planted on his knees, hands folded together. His thumbs traced circles into his skin. “Because I’m really not in the mood for a buoyant conversation.”**

**Watkins’ eyes narrowed. “I always had the utmost respect for your father,” he said, which answered Malcolm’s question and made him groan in response. “Do you know why?” Malcolm didn’t respond, but thumped his head against the wall instead. An illogical and desperate manner to keep a growing headache at bay. “Because your father respected me, too. I know he didn’t have much say into your upbringing, but I would have at least expected him to build a firm foundation for basic values such as respect.”**

**“My father is a notorious serial killer who murdered people in cold blood.” It was pointless to argue, Malcolm knew that, but he just couldn’t help himself. “I don’t think respect is a known item to him.”**

**“That’s where you’re wrong.” Watkins began to drum his fingers together and the corners of his lips curved upwards ever so slightly. The smile brightening his face had Malcolm’s chest tighten with dread. “But don’t worry, you’ll have more respect for me and my kindness after today.” He reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out a syringe.**

**Malcolm’s mouth turned dry.**

**“Now, because I’m feeling generous, you can endure your punishment with or without this.” Watkins twirled the syringe between his fingers, Malcolm’s gaze fixed on the needle and its contents.**

**“I don’t want it.” His voice was barely above a whisper. Dread inside his chest twisted together into something hard and sharp. Panic. “Watkins … I’m sorry, okay? It was foolish of me to–”**

**“The apology comes too late,” Watkins interrupted him. “Are you sure you don’t want it?”**

**Breathing hard and fast, Malcolm weighed his options. He could accept the drugs, the benzodiazepines, but then he’d only confirm what Watkins already suspected; that he was a junkie who couldn’t say no. But then the pain would ease, his mind would dull, and he might even be able to catch some sleep. He’d feel stronger after. Maybe.**

**Or he could stay stubborn and refuse, and just accept whatever Watkins had in store for him. Because he _could_ take it. Gil had always complained about his stubbornness, about his inability to call for help when it was needed, his lack of insight in dangerous situations. Perhaps now it was time to use that inability, or talent, to be stubborn and feel stronger after.**

**Or break entirely.**

**“I …” Words barely came to him. His mind was racing. “I don’t want it.”**

**“Alright then, suit it yourself.”**

**Watkins stood, approached Malcolm, and knelt in front of him. The syringe glinted under the cold, faint winter-light. Malcolm held his breath, swallowed away his desperation urging him to change his mind, and watched, with wide, unsure eyes, as Watkins laid the syringe beside him. He could grab it, stick it in his arm, and let numbness take him. Or he could try and attack Watkins with it, an idea that sent shivers down his spine, but then Watkins reached behind his back and revealed a club hammer, twisting the instrument between his fingers.**

**Malcolm drew in a sharp breath. He wanted to pull away from Watkins, wanted to put as much distance between them as possible, but he was already driven into a corner with no way out. With no escape. The metal chains rattled as he desperately tried to shuffle away, dragging him down, but then Watkins grabbed a hold of his wrist and pulled him close.**

**“It’ll be quick,” Watkins said, and pressed Malcolm’s hand flat against the floor.**

**“No!”**

**“You shouldn’t have run away, Malcolm.” Watkins’ gaze stood wide and frantic.**

**It probably mirrored his own. Malcolm’s heart raced inside his chest and his limbs were trembling. With whatever strength he had left, he tried to pull himself free, tried to push Watkins away, but after weeks of suffering his torture and torment, of starvation and sleep-deprivation, he was too weak.**

**He should have accepted the drugs.**

**“No, Watkins, _please_ –” Tears of fear and panic and anger filled his eyes.**

**Watkins raised the hammer high–**

**“ _No!_ ”**

**–and brought it down on his hand.**

**For a split second, the entire room froze.**

**The whole world stopped spinning.**

**Malcolm’s heart skipped a beat, his entire body seemed to be frozen in a non-existing state, and then it all slammed into his body like a violent wave crashing against a rocky shoreline, furious and frenzied.**

**Pain burst from his hand, like electricity. Too strong. Too bright.**

**A scream exploded from his lips.**

**Too sharp. Too much.**

**Malcolm fell onto his back and cradled his shattered hand to his chest. Tears streamed down his face. He gasped for air that did not reach his lungs.**

**“There,” Watkins said, pleased. “Lesson learned, I think.”**


	8. Therapy

**His hand throbbed, his heartbeat echoing through his fingers.**

**Malcolm lay on his side, his shattered hand resting beside him, thick and swollen, the skin red and blue, black and purple. Every once in a while, he tried to move his fingers, but whenever he did, a sharp and piercing pain shot through his hand. It vibrated all the way up to his shoulder. He would feel sick then, the little content inside his stomach threatening to come out.**

**He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had any water. What he _could_ remember was all the pain coursing through his body, spreading like a disease with every heartbeat.**

**_Thump_ , his hand. _Thump_ , his head. _Thump_ , his stomach. _Thump_ , his leg. His muscles were sore and tense, his bones heavy. Pain didn’t stop pulsating through his brain, hazing his vision, darkening the edges of his vision. Or was it simply the day making way for the night? At this point in time, Malcolm couldn’t tell anymore whether it was morning or evening. There were times he couldn’t even remember where he was.**

**The syringe laying within reach continuously demanded his attention, Watkins having left it behind purposely. The prospect of injecting himself made his chest tighten with trepidation, and with humiliation, because it also filled him with elation and want. Just one meaningless sting and as the substance would flow through his veins and the pain would lessen. It would become bearable.**

**_No_.**

**Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut and focused on his breathing.**

**In and out. In and out. In and out.**

**He could do without.**

-x-

The days were long and dark, which wasn’t unusual for February-days, but Malcolm felt their effects more. He felt more amiable when the sun was giving off light and warmth. When darkness settled around them and artificial light replaced the sun, his mood dropped and he felt … disagreeable. The nurses became overbearing instead of compassionate. His mother appeared more frigid after sunset, and Gil forgot how to smile. Winter was wearing them down. Or so he thought.

It was all in his head, Malcolm knew. He was imagining people’s darker state of minds, because he seemed to have lost control of his own. He’d always prided himself on the fact that he was an intelligent, well-mannered, agreeable, young man with one hell of a lot of self-control, but now he lost all that.

That time when dusk was falling rapidly, painting the sky in red and orange, Malcolm began to wander through the hallways of the hospital, his legs becoming restless and his mind detesting the oncoming darkness. It reminded him too much of the pitch-black nights he’d spent at Watkins’ place, all alone in the freezing cold.

Nurses always smiled at him when he walked past them. Patients ignored him. Doctors who didn’t know him frowned at him as his face seemed familiar, but they couldn’t quite place him. It made him feel watched and ignored at the same time, because none of them knew. None of them had even the faintest inkling of what he had gone through.

His step faltered as his mind catapulted back to that room with wooden slats, one chair, and a metal chain tying him down. Malcolm leaned a shoulder against the wall and pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart. His lungs burned with how fast he was breathing as memories of pain returned to him unwantedly, forcing their way to the front of his mind.

Closing his eyes, he tried to focus on the here and now, tried telling himself that he was free and safe, that Watkins couldn’t hurt him anymore, but then he remembered that madman was still out there and bile rose up his throat. An image of a knife, the metal blade catching sunlight, hurt his eyes, so Malcolm opened them again and found his vision hazy.

Sweat dripped down his forehead. His mouth had turned dry.

Swallowing heavily, forcing himself to suck in deep breaths, Malcolm pushed himself away from the wall, wanting to keep moving forward, when he saw a girl standing at the end of the hallway, by the window. She had her back turned to him, her attention focused on the river outside, and in her hand, she held a pair of scissors.

Malcolm halted, wondering what he should do, if he should perhaps call for a nurse, but before he could decide, she pressed the sharp edge of the scissors to her wrist. His feet brought him forward on instinct.

“Mia?” he asked cautiously. “What have you got there?”

She didn’t turn around to look at him, nor did her shoulders tense like she had been caught. In fact, she didn’t move at all, which made Malcolm wonder if she’d heard him in the first place, but then she spoke, her voice low and gravelly. “Wouldn’t it be easier?” She glanced across her shoulder at him, her long, blonde hair falling loosely across her shoulders. “It certainly would be for me.”

“No,” Malcolm argued without thinking. He regretted not calling for help, thought that perhaps he still should, but Mia was looking at him with such intense, dark eyes that he felt frozen in place, by her. “It wouldn’t solve anything.”

A sad smile curved the edges of her lips upward. “I disagree.”

“I know it’s a cliché thing to say,” Malcolm lifted his hands as if to show he meant her no harm, “but I know how you’re feeling.”

Outside, dusk had nearly transformed into utter darkness. The Hudson River glistened underneath the pale moonlight. Malcolm couldn’t remember how many hours he’d stared at the moon during his five weeks of captivity, wondering if he’d ever look at it again as a free man.

"Because you were kidnapped, too?" Her voice was soft and fragile, and once again Malcolm couldn't help but think she looked so young, sounded so young. It was a cruel twist of fate that such a bright, young girl, someone with her whole life still ahead of her, already had to deal with something as hard and twisted as _this_.

“But we got out.” Nothing but conviction echoed in his voice and he hoped she heard it and believed it – believed _him_. “We survived.”

“Is that how you feel?” Mia still had the scissors pressed to her wrist. With only one smooth movement she could break the skin and blood would stream from her veins. “Like a survivor?”

It was funny how steady his hands were. Malcolm stared at them for a second, feeling momentarily relieved – because it proved there were still moments where this psychogenic tremor didn’t grab hold of him, moments he was still in control – before quickly focusing on Mia again. “They tried to kill us,” he said as he took a step closer to her. When she didn’t shrink back or ordered him to stop, he took another step. “But they failed.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Mia shook her head, her eyes fluttering shut. Tears streamed down her face. “They didn’t fail. I died there.” Her hands began to tremble and the scissors slipped from her grip. Malcolm quickly stole them from her. “I’m not a survivor,” she whispered.

He parted his lips to argue with her, to convince her that she was stronger than her captor ever would be, but footsteps sounded behind him. Malcolm turned around to see Dr. Simmons approach, a frown creasing the older man’s brow and concern filling his green eyes. “Malcolm,” he said, “I’ve been looking for you. You’re late for your therapy-session.”

“Right.” He’d completely forgotten about that. Glancing over his shoulder at Mia, he found that she was no longer there. Confused, he let his gaze wander around, but she must have slipped into the adjacent hallway when Dr. Simmons had approached. “I’m sorry, I lost track of time.”

Dr. Simmons folded his hands before his stomach and cleared his throat, his gaze raking up and down Malcolm’s form – Malcolm who suddenly felt acutely watched. “No problem.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Is there any particular reason why you’re carrying around scissors?”

The instrument lay almost forgotten in his hand. Malcolm stared at it and thought of Mia; the desolation in her eyes had felt all-too familiar.

“No,” he said, head shaking and handing them to the doctor.

They walked to his office, which was one level down, and as they walked in silence, Malcolm glanced around in the hopes of catching a glimpse of her. Somehow, she reminded him of Ainsley. Young, vibrant, and smart, but her future had been stolen. If events had transpired differently, Ainsley’s future could have been stolen, too. Malcolm tried not to think too much about what-if-scenarios, but the idea of Watkins having abducted his sister had a cold shiver crawl down his spine.

“How are you settling in?” Dr. Simmons asked as they entered his office.

It was a large room with a giant window behind a giant desk. Bookcases covered the left and right wall, Malcolm moving past them and catches a few familiar titles, books he’d read himself during his College-time and during his time at Quantico. Now the same psychology-tricks he used on criminals and murderers would be used on him. It felt wrong.

“Alright, I guess,” he answered as he caught a particularly interesting title. _Healing Developmental Trauma, How Early Trauma Affects Self-Regulation, Self-Image, and the Capacity for Relationship._ Malcolm picked the book off the shelf and looked at the picture of the author. It was funny how until a few weeks ago, he’d believed in all these books, but now he wished to burn them all. After putting the book back, Malcolm turned to look at Dr. Simmons who was still observing him keenly. “Still no group-therapy for me?”

“I don’t think you’re ready yet,” the doctor answered, and sat down behind his large, mahogany desk. He motioned to the chair standing on the other side, silently asking Malcolm to join him. “Let’s take it one step at a time.”

“Of course.” Malcolm sat down, as well, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. He felt at ease – or tried to force himself to feel at ease anyway. Talking to Dr. Le Deux was easy. She knew him better than his own mother. But the doctor sitting in front of him; he was a stranger who had no idea who he was and what he’d already lived through, now and years ago.

Dr. Simmons offered him a kind smile. “How are you feeling?”

Also, Malcolm just wasn’t in the mood to sit here and talk about his feelings. He wanted to find Mia and make sure she was okay. “I’m fine,” he said.

One of Dr. Simmons’ eyebrows arched upwards. “No trouble sleeping?”

Malcolm huffed out a breathy laugh. These weren’t the kind of questions Dr. Le Deux would bother asking, because she already knew the answers to those questions, and she knew it was pointless asking them. “I’ve always had trouble sleeping,” he replied cordially. “That won’t change now.”

“You’re on different medication, though.” Dr. Simmons leaned forward, his elbows resting on the surface of the desk and his hands folding together, mirroring Malcolm’s. It was a commonly used technique to make a patient feel more at ease, to establish a sense of empathy. Malcolm saw straight through it. “We’re giving you Lyrica, which is used to treat generalized anxiety and panic disorders.”

“I don’t think you can describe my anxiety and panic as _general_ ,” Malcolm disputed with an amused grin on his face. “My fears and worries are very grounded. I grew up with a serial-killer-dad, after all.”

“And you were held captive for five weeks by another serial killer,” Dr. Simmons said rather bluntly, which Malcolm hadn’t expected. He’d assumed the doctor would tread lightly around him, like everyone else, weighing his words, like everyone else. In that moment, Malcolm decided he rather liked the doctor.

“Yeah,” Malcolm sighed and shifted in his seat. “And he happens to be an old friend of my father’s.”

“Exactly.” Dr. Simmons leaned back against his chair and stared at him with impossibly clear, green eyes. Malcolm disliked it when the man looked at him like that, as if he could see straight past his defences and into his mind. “That must unlock something within you.”

“I’ve accepted a long time ago that my life isn’t normal and will never be,” Malcolm said truthfully, shrugging his shoulders as he did.

Dr. Simmons believed none of it, his gaze narrowing. “So you simply accept all of these events?” he wanted to know.

“Yes.”

For the first time since arriving in the office, Dr. Simmons picked up a pen and wrote down a few words on an empty piece of paper. “Alright,” he said, laying down the pen again. “I want to talk about a moment that transpired between you and Chief Detective Gil Arroyo back at the general hospital.”

His heart skipped a beat. “He told you about that?”

“I think it was the only time you have been honest with any of us,” Dr. Simmons said. His fingers slid across the pen, rolling it across his desk, moving it a few inches to the right, then to the left. “You were angry with him.”

“I was tired.” Malcolm forced himself to look into the doctor’s eyes, forced himself to be unafraid. Looking away would only betray his nervousness. And his lies. “I said things I didn’t mean. I don’t blame him for anything that happened.”

“Sometimes,” Dr. Simmons started, choosing his words with care; Malcolm could tell by the way his voice-pattern changed. He spoke softer and slower. “It is at our most vulnerable state we speak the truth. I know this and I know you know this.”

Malcolm’s jaw clenched together. He hated how his own knowledge of psychology was used against him. It would be much simpler if he knew nothing and could hide behind ignorance. “Like I said before,” he forced out. “I’m fine.”

“Listen, Malcolm,” Dr. Simmons sighed, his fingers no longer moving across the desk. “I haven’t done this before with anyone else, but I’m going to invoke a censorship. I want to ban a word. I don’t want to hear the word _‘fine’_ during our conversations again.”

A laugh slipped away from him. Malcolm inclined his head and tried to stop a smile from spreading across his face. “Fine,” he chuckled. It was amusing the kind of effect he had on therapists, frustrating them and pushing their buttons. The warning scowl Dr. Simmons sent his way, one without heat or antagonism, but with true admonition merely made his smile grow.

“Malcolm.” Dr. Simmons sounded very serious. “We’ve been talking for fifteen minutes already, but you haven’t yet allowed me any insight into your thoughts or feelings. I know we’re still building a doctor-patient relationship, but you’re going to have to do better than this.”

The words seemed to strike something within him. Malcolm sat unmoving for a moment and thought about what the doctor had said before realizing that he was right. Pretending everything was fine wasn’t going to help him process everything that happened, and process he had to. He wasn’t stupid, after all. He knew well enough that he wasn’t fine and refusing help wouldn’t make any of this better.

No, he needed to give this a chance, if only so he could say that he tried so that he could get out of here.

“I found you wandering around with scissors, Malcolm,” Dr. Simmons said seriously, and with that, the final remnants of his smile vanished. Malcolm bit down on his tongue, refusing to speak up, refusing to tell him they didn’t belong to him, because he wouldn’t want to cause trouble for Mia.

“It won’t happen again,” he simply said.

Dr. Simmons stayed quiet for a moment, taking in his patient, searching for lies in his words, but once he appeared convinced there weren’t any, he nodded once, content. “I want you to choose one word to describe your most prominent state of mine right now. One emotion.”

“Only one?” The task seemed impossible.

“The most prominent one, and it can’t be _fine_ ,” the doctor warned lightly, a ghost of a smile playing around the corners of his lips.

The momentary lightness that encompassed him made him appear younger than he really was. Or perhaps the intense earnestness that usually surrounded him made him appear older than he really was. Malcolm estimated the doctor was about forty-five years old, with bright green eyes and sharp cheekbones. His thin lips almost never curled into a smile, but when they did, he looked more amicable, more accessible, but Malcolm didn’t think the doctor had much reason to smile working as a psychiatrist and listening to nothing but trauma.

“I suppose …” Malcolm thought about the question, for a moment considering to just name a feeling, but then decided that answering truthfully was necessary. He needed to give this, this therapy-plan, a chance. “I suppose that would be anger.”

Dr. Simmons nodded thoughtfully. “And why is that?”

“Because I’m angry.” The moment he’d said those words, the moment he heard them in his own voice, it became true, more than it already was. The emotion twisted inside his chest like a razor-sharp pill filled with poison, physically hurting him as it sunk down his esophagus, to his stomach, but holding a promise of something much worse. “I feel angry all the time and that scares me, because I’m not an angry person. You can check that with my friends and family.”

“Who are you angry with?” Dr. Simmons asked.

“Everyone.” Malcolm lowered his head and brushed his fingers through his hair, resisting the urge to pull at the strands. His eyes fluttered shut and pain flitted through his mind as images of John Watkins flashed before him. He saw his knife and he felt it cut into his skin. He saw his fingers and felt them bruise him. “I’m angry at Watkins for having done this to me, the torment and the torture, and I’m angry at my father for bringing that man into my life.” Now that he’d opened this nasty can of worms, he couldn’t close it again. “I’m angry at Gil for not having found me sooner and I’m angry with mother for having put me here. I’m angry at Ainsley for thinking a few well-chosen words will help me, and I’m angry at you for making me say all this.”

By the time he was finished, he was out of breath and his heart hammered inside his throat. Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the palms of his hands against his face, unwilling to look at Dr. Simmons and see his reaction. He didn’t want to deal with his complacence, although a soft, but rational voice in the back of his head told him the psychiatrist wouldn’t feel smug at his outburst. That would be anything but professional, and Malcolm hated to admit the guy was good at his job.

“I’m glad you’ve shared this with me,” Dr. Simmons said after a few minutes of silence – or had it only been seconds? Malcolm released a breath he hadn’t known to be holding and straightened his back. Only when he looked at the doctor again, did he continue. “Anger is a very strong, but negative emotion, but when used right, it leads people to find solutions to their problems. When forced away and ignored, however, it twists into something uglier.”

 _Something uglier_. Malcolm had a faint idea of what he was talking about, but he still asked, “What would that be?”

“Hate and bitterness,” the doctor replied. He radiated nothing but calmness and just like he had mirrored Malcolm’s posture earlier, so did Malcolm mirror his now. _A commonly used technique_. Malcolm applied it and felt a little less shaken and a little more placid. “And in your case, it enhances your symptoms of PTSD, but I think you’re well aware of that fact.” The doctor glanced down at Malcolm’s hands – Malcolm followed his line of sight and saw his own hands trembling.

They hadn’t trembled like that since he’d been with Watkins.

“So what?” he pondered, still staring at his hands. “I need to let go of my anger and everything will be okay again?”

“That’s not what I said,” Dr. Simmons said almost wistfully. “If only it were that easy, right?” He inhaled sharply and leaned back onto his desk, closing some of the distance between himself and his patient. It showed he cared. Or it was supposed to make the patient think so at least. “What you need to do, is find solutions, but you can only decide for yourself what those solutions are.”

“If only it were that easy,” Malcolm echoed.

“It won’t be.”

The trembling of his hands subsided.

The throbbing in his head didn’t.

“This conversation will resonate in your mind for a few days, Malcolm.” Dr. Simmons wrote something down in his file again, looking away from him, giving Malcolm a chance to compose himself – which he did by sucking in a deep breath, straightening his T-shirt, and combing back his hair which had fallen in front of his face. “That’s normal. Think about what we just talked about. I would like to build on this during our next session.”

Malcolm didn’t say anything as he stood, his legs feeling weak, his muscles sore from the tension that only now drained from them.

“Malcolm?” Dr. Simmons asked as he reached for the doorknob. Only when he halted and turned, did he ask, “Are you alright? I can ask a nurse to accompany you to your room if you’d like.”

“No,” Malcolm threw him a faint, but genuine smile. “I’m _fine_.”

-x-

He didn’t think about Mia anymore as he made his way to his room, feeling drained and tired. Dr. Simmons was right; the words that had been spoken between them echoed in his mind, burying themselves deep within his thoughts where they transformed into something else.

Into an idea.

A solution.

Or something much worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A ... calmer chapter - I feel like Malcolm deserved a break for once. But an important chapter nonetheless. Chapter 9 will soon be posted!


	9. The Bathroom

His hand was throbbing. Malcolm kept it pressed against his chest, his other hand holding it and rubbing circles into the skin just below the cast, as if that would help. Standing by the window, his shoulder leaning against the wall, he stared at the blue sky and counted the airplanes passing by. It was a habit he’d picked up again, counting things to occupy his mind when he needed to push other thoughts away.

“Are you okay?”

Ainsley sat on his bed, one leg folded underneath her and a phone in hand. It was a little after noon and her lunch break was probably long over, but she didn’t seem to plan on leaving soon. Perhaps it was the dark circles underneath his eyes that had alarmed her when she’d arrived an hour and a half ago. Perhaps it was the rigidness to his shoulders and neck. Perhaps it was the obvious exhaustion lining his face.

Malcolm hadn’t slept properly in years, nightmares haunting him for as long as he could remember, but now they seemed to prey on him, watching him from the dark corners of his mind and waiting until he was at his most vulnerable to attack. His conversation with Dr. Simmons hadn’t helped either. Now that he’d admitted to feeling angry, at everyone, he felt guilty.

And his hand hurt.

“Yeah, I’m fi–” He swallowed the word, unwillingly. Dr. Simmons had tainted it, had broken this defence and rendered it useless. Sighing, looking down at his broken hand and thinking his fingers looked more swollen than usual, Malcolm felt a nearly irresistible urge to tear off the cast and throw it out the window – which was probably impossible, windows in psychiatric hospitals more than likely having been locked down to prevent tragedies.

His hand _hurt_.

Ainsley rose from the bed and joined him by the window. Gingerly, she reached out for his hand and began to massage his fingers. “I can go ask a nurse for a painkiller if you want.”

“No, that’s not necessary,” Malcolm said. The idea of taking more medication then he already was, unsettled him, Watkins’ words vibrating through his mind as he entertained the idea of swallowing down a few of his favourite kind of benzodiazepines. _‘Who would have thought,’_ Watkins had said, _‘Dr. Whitley’s son is nothing more than a junkie.’_ A shiver ran down his back.

“How did you …” Ainsley trailed off, but when catching her brother’s gaze, she seemed to decide something; a decision Malcolm was grateful for, because he was sick and tired of all the cautious treading around him, as if the wrong word would set him off, or worse, break him even more than he already was. “How did you break your hand?” she asked as she continued to massage his hand.

It did help with the pain.

“One day,” Malcolm started, his gaze fixed on their locked touches, “Watkins let me out of my cell.” As he remembered that day, his heart began to beat faster, but he refused to let the memories control him. He refused to let them swallow him. “He took me downstairs and got distracted for a moment. I saw my chance and thought I was strong enough, so I ran.” His hand began to shake within Ainsley’s, but while she noticed, she pretended she didn’t. “I didn’t run fast enough.”

The back of his leg hurt when thinking back to that moment, when remembering the knife piercing his skin and muscle. Malcolm felt blood stream down his skin again, and his hands began to shake even more. Ainsley simply grabbed hold of them, keeping them steady. She was looking at him, searching for eye-contact, but Malcolm kept his gaze locked on the sky outside.

“He decided I should be punished for my insubordination.” His hand spasmed painfully. A shudder tore through his body when he remembered Watkins lifting the hammer, and bringing it back down. “He brought a hammer to the room, grabbed hold of my hand, and smashed it.”

“Oh God, Malcolm,” Ainsley breathed.

Pulling his hands away from her, Malcolm turned and moved to sit on his bed, unsure if his legs would hold him upright much longer. He still couldn’t look at her, didn’t want to see pity and sorrow in her dark brown eyes. He didn’t want to encourage her to say something stupid and cliché like she had before.

“I’m sorry,” she said as she sat down beside him. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Malcolm shook his head and let out a shaky breath. “I have to start learning how to do this. I need to be able to think about what Watkins did to me without … _this_.” He motioned a hand to himself, which earned him a confused frown from his sister, but she knew perfectly well what he meant.

He needed to be able to revisit these memories without falling apart, without having his limbs start to tremble, without his heart starting to hammer inside his chest, his stomach churning painfully. He needed to process what had happened and let it go, but apparently, that wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped it would be.

But he knew why that was now, had come up with that insight not long after his last therapy session with Dr. Simmons.

Watkins was still out there.

“I want to go home,” he said after a moment of silence. Finally, he did look at his sister, wanting to gage her reaction, and just as he’d expected, he found shock and consternation filling her face. She pursed her lips and her eyebrows shot upwards. “As far as I’m aware, this isn’t a prison and I’m here on a voluntary basis. I’m not saying I want to go home indefinitely, but I want to go home for just a few hours.”

“I’m not sure that’s–”

“It’s probably not a good idea,” Malcolm admitted. His fingers curled around Ainsley’s knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. “But I won’t be doing this alone. You can come with me, stay with me, and I can finally sit on my own couch for a while, lay in my own bed for a while, take a shower in my own bathroom, and see Sunshine again.”

Ainsley swallowed heavily. “I don’t know why you’re asking me this,” she said, head shaking. “I have no authority in this whatsoever.”

“But you can support me.” Malcolm knew what he looked like right now: wired up and unsteady. He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. “I can convince Dr. Simmons that this might be beneficial to my healing-process, but only if you support me, Ains. Will you do that?”

She gazed into his eyes, long and hard, and Malcolm knew what she saw in them. Determination. He would do this with or without her help.

“Alright,” she conceded. “I’ll support you.”

-x-

**Hatred, Malcolm decided, was a powerful emotion. Nearly powerful enough to push back other emotions such as fear and confusion. Nearly powerful enough to push back physical sensations such as hunger, thirst, and pain.**

**_Nearly._ **

**No matter how much he hated Watkins for doing this to him, for keeping him here and breaking him piece by piece, the pain still seeped through, controlling his every thought. No matter how much he hated himself for longing for that injection, his desire to just take hold of it and stick the needle into his skin overpowered him.**

**With whatever energy he still had left – he hadn’t moved yet from where he lay in hours – his hand reached for the syringe, his movements disconnected, beyond his control. His fingers creeped across the floor, scratching across the wood. Once the syringe was within reach, Malcolm hesitated, wondering if he truly was so weak, but then another spasm burst through his broken hand, and, without thinking, Malcolm grabbed hold of the needle.**

**He carefully stretched out his arm, stared at his blue veins for a moment, feeling nauseous, loathing himself for what he was about to do, and then pricked the needle through his skin.**

**The effects were instant, the substance flowing through his veins and warming his body, numbing him. The pain dulled and became something he could push to the back of his mind, along with every unwanted thought and memory of torture gone by.**

**Malcolm rolled onto his back and released a breath of air he hadn’t known to be holding.**

**The syringe fell from his grasp.**

**Sleep was within reach. Malcolm closed his eyes, ignoring the tears slipping down the side of his face, and embraced the oncoming darkness. Sleep was calling to him, and Malcolm longed for the rest it offered, the oblivion, but then the locks clicked open and John Watkins entered the room with a pleased grin on his face.**

-x-

“Are you really going through with this?”

Malcolm had just been putting on his coat when she appeared in the doorway. Mia leaned against the frame, her arms crossed before her chest. Her long blond hair was pulled into a high ponytail and she wore a white nightgown again, making Malcolm wonder if she owned any other clothes, because he only ever saw her wearing this gown, whether it be morning, afternoon, or evening.

“Going home, you mean?” he asked.

Mia sauntered into the room, her fingers brushing across the wall as she did. When she stood before the window, she halted and glanced outside. She was barefoot again. “Is that where you’re really going?” she asked in return.

Malcolm bit down on his tongue.

“You can’t fool me.” She turned around to look at him and crossed her arms before her chest again. It was a common defence-mechanism, Malcolm knew, one Mia had adopted effortlessly. “We’re the same after all, and whatever you’re thinking, I’m thinking.”

“My kidnapper is still out there,” Malcolm said. He hadn’t planned on indulging her, on having this conversation, but there was something about Mia that made him open up and reveal his thoughts. Perhaps it was because they’d gone through the same thing. Perhaps it was her piercing brown eyes stealing the truth from him. Perhaps it was something else. “If I want to put what has happened behind me, I’ll need to find him and make sure he never sees the light of day again.”

She cocked her head sideways and pursed her lips together. “Are you going to kill him?”

It was a question meant to shock him, but instead he laughed. “No,” he answered, his laughter ebbing away. The idea of taking Watkins’ life was entertaining, but only for a little while. “I’m not a murderer.”

She continued to stare at him, unblinking. Her brown eyes seemed darker than usual.

Malcolm’s skin crawled.

Suddenly, her white nightgown turned red, the wet colour starting near her stomach and spreading from there on out. Gasping, thinking she was hurt, Malcolm took a quick step towards her, to help her, but then he blinked and her gown was pristine white again. For a moment, he didn’t know had happened, what he should do, whether to ask her if she was alright, or ask himself that same question.

His head began to hurt, a throbbing ache forming near the base of his skull and pushing its way to the front.

“Well then,” she started as she pushed herself away from where she stood leaning against the window-sill. “I hope it goes as well as you think it will.”

Malcolm stood frozen in place, still unsure of what had happened, distrusting his own mind, as she walked out of the room.

His skin felt clammy and sweat dripped down his forehead.

He wanted to call out to her, ask her not to leave yet, ask her if she was truly alright, but then a new voice asked; “Are you ready?”

When he didn’t move, when instead he glanced down and found his hands warm and sticky with blood, Ainsley moved further into the room and placed a hand on his shoulder. Startled, Malcolm took a step away from her, his gaze locking with hers, but he didn’t see her, not really. His mind was hazy, his thoughts forming too slow. His sister’s thoughts were written clearly on her face – _Should I get help?_ – but Malcolm wasn’t going to miss this opportunity to leave the hospital, not after he spent days convincing Dr. Simmons that this was a good idea.

“Sorry,” Malcolm forced out, his voice tight and hoarse; he cleared his throat and shook his head, shaking away the haziness. “I’m sorry, Ains, I was lost in thought. I’m fi–” Damn you, Dr. Simmons. “I’m ready to go.”

Ainsley hesitated, her attention latched onto her brother, searching for the lie in his words and finding it, but then nodded, and relief knocked against Malcolm’s chest, causing his heart to flutter against his ribs.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s go.”

-x-

**His body seized with hysteria when Watkins closed the distance between them, instinct screaming at him to fight, because he needed to, had to if he wanted to survive this, but it was futile. Protesting was useless, because even after Watkins forced him up to his feet, not only did he lack the strength to pull himself free from his unyielding grip, Malcolm found he could barely keep himself upright, let alone push him away. He would be no good to himself in a fight, and while he knew that, the feeling of helplessness was a suffocating weight to carry.**

**Sensation slowly drained from his muscles, making him feel sluggish and lethargic – effects of the liquid inside of the syringe ebbing through his body – to the point where Malcolm had no choice but to walk out of the room with Watkins. Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut momentarily before blinking them open, trying to force away the bleariness, the disorientation. The walls around him seemed to be alive, the shape transforming, the wood bending over them, while the floor beneath their feet sunk away.**

**When they turned the corner, Malcolm recognised the direction they were heading in. Was Watkins going to let him take a shower? He certainly needed one. Malcolm could feel his shirt sticking to his body like a second skin, the sweat clammy and wet, making him feel even worse than what he already felt – and that was saying something, because his trousers had become stiff from the dried blood that had seeped from the stab wound.**

**Only as they continued down the hall did Malcolm realise just how quiet the man really was.**

**Or was he just having trouble hearing him? That was certainly possible. His vision swam in and out of focus, and Malcolm had to focus to keep his eyes open, to fight off the stars and the black spots that were making it difficult to see, because he had more important things to worry about.**

**“Where are you taking me?” he asked, and even when he was at the point where he was sure he couldn’t feel pain anymore, his body surprised him. Flashes and spasms of pain ignited throughout his entire body, sending flares of agony ripping through him.**

**Malcolm couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder at the backdoor again. He would have laughed at the sight of it, because it was firmly locked – not that there was any use for the locks; he was in no condition to run anymore. His left foot was dragging behind him with every step he took, but he couldn’t tell whether that was because of the stab wound, the blood loss, or the drugs coursing through his veins.**

**“It’s time,” Watkins simply said.**

**Malcolm was having trouble forming coherent words and sentences, let alone understanding them. At Watkins’ response, he furrowed his brow, dread seep in. “Time … for what?”**

**Watkins didn’t say anything, which did nothing to quell his worry. With his arm still firmly wrapped around Malcolm’s waist, he guided him towards the bathroom again – not to take a shower, Malcolm knew. The air between them felt dense – or perhaps he was just having trouble breathing. Malcolm swallowed heavily, trying to focus on his surroundings, but then Watkins was forcing him to a halt and pain radiated through his leg, drawing a hiss from his lips. He bit down on his lip to suppress a cry.**

**“It’s time for you to finish your training,” Watkins said, and opened the door to the bathroom.**

**The sight that met him had his heart stuttering in his chest, his pulse racing throughout his veins. Malcolm gasped, eyes widening, and he had to blink several times to be sure that what he was seeing was real and not some twisted hallucination conjured up by his fractured, drugged mind, because … because …**

**“** **Oh, God,” he breathed when the image unfolding before him remained the same.**

**“Isn’t she pretty?” Watkins let go of his prisoner – Malcolm grappling a moment before he half-fell into the doorway, his chest heaving, eyes unable to look away – and circled around what was most-decidedly not a hallucination, his dirtied fingers carding through her hair. “I captured her just for you.” Her long, blonde hair was stained red near her scalp from where Watkins had hurt her, possibly knocked her out in order to kidnap her, and Malcolm guessed her not much older than twenty-five. “It wasn’t easy,” Watkins added with a grin, “but I just thought she was perfect for you.”**

**The skin around her dark brown eyes was red and swollen from having cried so much, and there were tears still streaming down her cheeks. A long piece of tape covered her lips, preventing her from making much sound, though Malcolm could hear muffled gasps every once in a while. Her entire body was shaking with fear, and he knew that if her wrists weren’t connected to a chain above her head, she’d be curled up in a corner, trying to make herself as small as possible.**

**For the first time in a long while, the fog that had been suffocating him was slowly lifting, logic and reason starting to rear their heads, because it was one thing when it was just him – it was another thing entirely when another person was involved. Malcolm wanted more than anything to walk up to her and tell her everything would be okay, but he knew he would be lying.**

**“Watkins …” His voice was barely above a whisper. A part of him wanted to turn to look at the man, but another part of him couldn’t even think to tear his gaze from the girl. Bile burned the back of his throat, and he forced himself to swallow it down. “She has nothing to do with this, with our … quarrel. Let her go.”**

**“Oh, little Malcolm,” Watkins said, head shaking with disappointment. “Is that what you think we’re having? A quarrel?” He closed the distance between them again and placed a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, stealing a groan from him, because at this point, there wasn’t an inch of his body that didn’t hurt. “We don’t have a quarrel. We have a bond.”**

**Malcolm felt himself flinch at Watkins’ words, tearing his gaze away from the girl long enough to look at his captor, which was a mistake. There was a hunger in Watkins’ eyes, a darker meaning behind his words that had Malcolm wanting to shrink away from him, that had him wanting to tell him not to touch him anymore, but then Watkins moved to stand behind him, wrapping one arm around his waist and pressing something into his uninjured hand. And Malcolm knew what it was almost immediately. Feeling the man’s warm breath on the back of his neck caused a panic like no other to surge through him, his entire body convulsing, desperate to get away, but Watkins’ grip was strong and unyielding.**

**“** **No!” Malcolm shrieked, trying to drop the knife, feeling hysteria brimming on the edge when Watkins merely curled a hand around his, keeping the knife firmly lodged between his fingers. “No, Watkins, please!” It seemed as though all he was doing was panicking lately, pleading and begging a man who would not be bargained with. He couldn’t quite bring himself to care, though. It was something, and even though that something wasn’t doing him a bit of good, at least it was better than giving in.**

**Before him, the girl started crying harder, her head shaking. His panic and her terror seemed to excite Watkins all the more, because Malcolm could practically feel the man bubbling with energy.**

**“It’ll be easy,” Watkins said. “You’ll be surprised how easy it is.”**

**“No!” Tears of anger invaded his eyes, blurring his vision. He was forced to take a step forward, and then another, and another, until he stood directly in front of her, and Malcolm had no other choice than to stare straight into her dark eyes. He could read her thoughts, could feel her pleas, her silent prayers for mercy. Everything she was feeling –fear, sadness, heartache – radiated from her skin like heat and burned him. Muffled sounds came from her taped lips, strained sounds that penetrated his eardrums, and Malcolm knew what her words were without hearing them. He was just as powerless as she was, just as helpless.**

**“Just one smooth movement, Malcolm,” Watkins whispered into his ear. “For her sake.”**

**“Don’t do this, Watkins, please! Please, don’t make me do this!”**

**But it didn’t matter what he did. He screamed and tried to pull himself free, but it was no use. Watkins’ hold was too strong, and the combination of pain, blood loss, and drugs had rendered him too weak. And it was as though everything was suddenly happening in slow motion, as though he wasn’t traumatised enough, now his brain decided that it would take the time to perfectly soak up everything in the most vivid of detail.**

**Before Malcolm had time to even say anything – to offer a warning, to beg one more final time – Watkins’ fingers tightened around his hand and thrust it forward.**

**His screams grew quiet as soon as the knife was forced through the girl’s skin, the teeth of the blade slicing through veins and muscle before making a home in her stomach. Malcolm’s eyes grew wide and frantic, like hers. His limbs shook, like hers. Her blood streamed down his hand and arm and dripped onto the floor. It flowed from the wound on her stomach, quickly staining her nightgown, creating a puddle of crimson around her bare, dirty feet. Malcolm could practically hear the sound of the droplets of blood splattering along the concrete.**

**Bile rose up in his throat once more, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. Her dark brown eyes were filled with agony and disbelief, despair and horror, and then, slowly, they began to fade. And even though her eyes had been dark, there had been a brightness to them, but as her life trickled out of her, her gaze slowly became empty, hollow. Her entire body grew slack and her head lolled forward, long, blonde hair covering her grief-stricken features.**

**Malcolm’s fingers were still curled around the hilt of the knife, the blade still inside of her stomach.**

**Only when Watkins let go of him did he fall to his knees. This time, there was no pain. All noise around him had disappeared, the only sound that remained being his own laboured breathing and the frantic beating of his heart. His gaze remained on the girl, and Malcolm willed her to move, to draw in a deep breath, to be alive, but she hung there, too quiet. Too still. Blood dripped from that fatal wound, and when Watkins pulled the strip of tape from her lips, blood dripped from her mouth, too.**

**Malcolm pressed the back of his hands to his lips to keep himself from throwing up, the taste of bile on his tongue.**

**“** **Why –” He was breathing too fast to be able to speak properly. Maybe he was hyperventilating, his body forcing him to react to this obvious trauma through whatever way it could manage in this moment. “Why did you do that?” Tears streamed down his face. He stretched out a hand as if to touch her, but let it hover in the air between them. He couldn’t touch her. To touch her felt like it was dishonouring her. “Why did you make me do that? She was innocent.”**

**“No-one is innocent. You did good, Malcolm.” Watkins crouched down before him. His gaze was blazing with joy, the grin on his face revealing two rows of brown teeth. “Your father would be proud.”**

**“I– no.” Malcolm drew in a sharp, shuddering breath. He felt sick to his stomach, his head pounding. “No, no, he wouldn’t be– You shouldn’t have– She was–” More words were building inside of him, but were clogged up before they could leave his mouth, dying on his tongue. He could feel dark spots dotting his vision once more – or maybe those were the tears affecting his sight. He slowly closed his eyes and shook his head, as though that would shake away the images that were sure to be imprinted onto the backs of his eyelids for as long as he lived – which, admittedly, didn’t feel like it’d be all that long. “I don’t feel so well.”**

**“A first kill always shakes a person,” Watkins said, matter-of-factly. He proudly clapped a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, and Malcolm felt himself flinch violently. “Savour this moment, Malcolm. It will be gone before you know it, but the details will linger with you. No-one forgets their first.”**

**He didn’t know why he ever thought he’d be able to make sense of Watkins, why he ever thought he’d be able to understand him and get to the true core of his making. Watkins was insane and his thought process was absurd, but as Malcolm looked down at his trembling hands, which were covered in still-warm blood, all of that reasoning slipped away. The girl was dead. Gone. He blinked the tears from his eyes, forcing them away angrily. What right did he have crying when he was alive and breathing and she was …**

**Pressing his lips together, Malcolm looked back up at her; at her red-stained hair and her bruised and bound wrists, at her bloody lips and empty eyes, at her fair skin and dirty feet, at her bloodstained nightgown and at the knife sticking from her stomach. He took in every single detail of her, because he could not forget her. He would not forget her.**

**Because he’d killed her.**

**He’d _killed_ her.**

**Like father, like son.**


	10. Red and Blue

**He couldn’t remember the last time he had moved. At this point in time, Malcolm wasn’t sure he still could, whether his inertia came from a lack of energy or will. Perhaps it was simply both. As he lay on the cold floor of that goddamn small room with only one small window offering him a look outside, he wondered how much longer he could still do this. He’d been strong. He’d tried to stay stronger despite everything Watkins had thrown at him, but when was enough _enough_? When was a person allowed to break without anyone accusing him of weakness?**

**Would anyone accuse him of weakness, except himself? For days, for weeks, he had waited. Malcolm had waited for Gil to come and rescue him. He had waited for Dani and JT. But no one had come. For days, for weeks, he had hoped. It was clear now that hope had been futile, an expensive waste of energy he could have used differently.**

**Perhaps if he hadn’t waited and hoped, he would have been strong enough to stop Watkins from hurting that girl. Perhaps he would have been strong enough to stop himself from hurting her. Instead he’d been incapable of doing anything. Instead he had only idly screamed and cried, helplessly.**

**Were they still even looking for him?**

**Malcolm’s mind never stopped running in circles, one thought always leading to another, and to another, but always the same. Scenario after scenario played out before him, all with different choices being made, but all lead to the same result. In none of them, the girl lived, Watkins died, or he was free. Still, Malcolm was convinced that if he’d acted smarter, made better decisions, proved himself stronger, that none of this would have happened.**

**But he’d acted dumb, made stupid decisions, and proved himself weak. The thoughts in his head grew quiet, sleep calling to him, but each time Malcolm closed his eyes, desperate to accept the coming darkness, the oblivion, images flashed inside his mind, stirring him wide awake again, shaking his body and proving to Malcolm that he _could_ still move. Those violent shivers were the only thing that kept him from thinking he was dead, too. **

**Wouldn’t that be easier?**

**It was a thought Malcolm refused to entertain, no matter how many times his mind threw it at him. For weeks now, he had endured everything Watkins had thrown at him, had bitten through the pain, had withstood the psychological torment. He would not break now.**

**But wasn’t he already broken?**

**Anger surged through Malcolm’s veins, warming his blood. It was an emotion he latched onto with desperation, needing it as much as he needed air in his lungs. Anger was the only thing keeping him from despairing. Hatred kept him from feeling anguish. But no emotion was strong enough to push down self-loathing – and _boy_ , did he have a lot of that?**

**Even as he thought about how much he despised himself, his own body betrayed him by longing for numbness, for another shot of sedatives that would blunt the edges of his pain, and dull his thoughts. Watkins’ words might have been a lie, but they wouldn’t be any more when he’d finally get away from this place.**

**If he ever got away from this place.**

**_Wouldn’t it be easier?_ **

**His eyes fluttered shut and tears slipped down his cheek. What would his mother think if she knew what he was thinking? What would his sister? How disappointed would Gil be if he knew he wanted to give up? How repulsed would his father be? His self-loathing twisted and turned inside his chest, becoming hard and sharp and making breathing near impossible.**

**_Wouldn’t it be easier? Just one more injection, but too much this time._ **

**Malcolm balled his hand into a fist, nails threatening to break skin. A sudden sharpness could break his current chain of thought, this vicious circle of dreary beliefs, but digging his nails into the palm of his hand wasn’t enough. Eyes opening again, his breath coming out in quick, short bursts, Malcolm blinked and looked around for anything that could distract him, but in a room filled with nothing but himself, a metal chain, and a chair, there was little that could capture his attention.**

**And then his gaze fell on his balled hand, on the redness of his skin. Her blood. His heart beat inside his throat and thoughts inside his head smashed against the inside of his skull like heavy rocks threatening to break through. _Wouldn’t it be easier? Wouldn’t it be easier? Wouldn’t it be easier?_ With every blow, they grew louder and louder. With every strike, they grew stronger.**

**Nothing but a sharp pain could break through.**

**Malcolm drew in a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and lifted his balled hand into the air. For three long seconds, he heard nothing but his own heart drum inside his ears, along with those dreadful words – _Wouldn’t it be easier?_ – and then he slammed his blood-red fist onto his already shattered hand.**

**-x-**

**Last time Watkins had entered, Malcolm’s body had betrayed him by reacting with nothing but fear and dread. His muscles had tensed, instinct forcing him to choose between fight and flight, but today his body remained as it had been for the past few hours – or had it been days already? Inert. With dull, drained eyes, he followed his captor around the room, watching him close the door behind him, shuffle towards him, and reach into a plastic bag he’d brought with him.**

**This time, he felt no panic as Watkins crouched down before him. There was no anxious anticipation as he waited to find out what was in store for him next. There was only agitation as he decided the man breathed far too loud to his liking. Malcolm remained unmoving as Watkins set down a bottle of water in front of him and then paused to look at him, his head cocked sideways and his gaze narrowing a little.**

**“Are you still moping?” he asked, annoyance creeping into his voice. Watkins still sat crouched before him and folded his fingers together with the plastic bag still in between them. His hands were clean, contrary to Malcolm’s. When Malcolm didn’t respond, when he didn’t even bother to glance up at him and react, Watkins sighed and stood. “Let her go, Malcolm. It doesn’t do well to dwell on the past.”**

**For the first time in hours or days or whatever – Malcolm lost the will to care – he stirred. Every muscle in his body protested the movement, but Malcolm pushed himself into a sitting position. Even this small shift of posture was tiring and made his head pounce again, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the light hurt him. “ _Moping?_ ” he echoed with a hollow and hoarse voice. “You made me kill her.”**

**“And now you need to let her go,” Watkins repeated with rolling eyes. He sat down on the chair and fidgeted with the bag, the rustling of the plastic causing a shiver to run down Malcolm’s spine. Having been surrounded with nothing but silence, every sound now felt deafening. “She served her purpose.”**

**Outrage flared inside Malcolm like a fire lighting him from the inside out, warming his skin and urging him onwards. Even if he felt moments away from giving up on himself, even when he’d lost hope of ever making it out of this place alive, he could and would never give up on her. He would seize every opportunity to defend her, to honour her, and to protect her memory from the twisted mind of their captor. Malcolm refused to let Watkins destroy her even more after death.**

**“ _She_ was an innocent girl that had nothing to do with this.” His voice might still waver, but conviction cracked through the words nonetheless. “She didn’t deserve this.” _He didn’t deserve this either_ , a small voice near the back of his head whispered, but that small voice was quickly silenced by his self-loathing that accused him of being weak, that he should have been stronger instead.**

**“Yes,” Watkins agreed, nodding his head earnestly, as if truly considering Malcolm’s words, but Malcolm wouldn’t be fooled. He’d learned the hard way that there was no reasoning with him. “That’s why I choose people who do deserve it.”**

**“No one deserves this.” Cradling his injured hand to his chest, ignoring the throbbing pain pulsating through his fingers and ghosting all the way up to his elbow, Malcolm shifted where he sat and ignored the rest of his body burning in protest. A thin layer of sweat seemed continuously plastered to his skin and Malcolm feared he might be having a fever, but that was just one more ailment to add to the already big pile of shit. “She’ll be missed by her parents and by her siblings. She’ll be missed by her friends. Now that she’s gone, now that you stole her away from them, she’ll leave nothing but a giant, hollow hole in their lives.”**

**Watkins shrugged, his uncaring reaction so instantaneously that it made malice curl Malcolm’s upper lip, his teeth gnashing together. No gruesome childhood could advocate for this level of callousness. “If it helps, just think of her as a bitch,” Watkins offered then, his words causing Malcolm to flinch with abhorrence. “Maybe her parents won’t miss her, because she was a disrespectful daughter. Maybe her siblings won’t miss her, because she was a mean sister. Maybe she didn’t have any friends at all, because she was a bully.”**

**Her grieve-stricken face flashed before him, with tears streaming down her flushed cheeks and tape covering her lips. Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut and tried to imagine her as she would have been before Watkins had kidnapped her. He tried imagining her with kind, brown eyes and a soft smile lighting her features. He imagined her standing in a field of flowers with sunlight emanating from her skin. She looked happy standing there, but the image faded as quickly as it had appeared, and Malcolm once again saw nothing but his hand curled around the knife inside her stomach.**

**“Does that make you sleep better at night?” he asked with a harsh and bitter voice.**

**Watkins stood, shoving the bag inside the pocket of his jeans, and closed the distance between them again. When he crouched this time, Malcolm did draw back a little, because he disliked the look on Watkins’ face. There was too much amusement lighting his eyes. “Imagine her,” he started again, “as there already are so many other girls; lost and never to be found again. M. I. A. But she is one of the lucky ones, you know.” Watkins briefly wiggled his fingers, as if considering what to do, and then ticked his pointer finger against Malcolm’s broken hand, stealing a pained hiss from his lips. He chuckled, gratified by his prisoner’s reaction, and stood again. “She didn’t suffer,” he paused, thinking for a moment, and then added, “much.”**

**Malcolm glared at him, wanted nothing more than to surge onto his feet and fold his fingers around his neck and steal his life with his two bare hands. But all he could do instead was watch him turn and leave the room. All he could do, was revisit Watkins’ words, repeat them in his mind, and tell himself he was wrong.**

**-x-**

**His anger dissipated not long after Watkins had left and made room for apathy again. For exhaustion and melancholy, hopelessness and helplessness. His hatred for Watkins got pushed to the background by distraught and bewilderment.**

**No matter how hard Malcolm tried to keep fighting, the devil always won.**

**Malcolm had fought many demons, had found himself standing face to face with murderers, both sane an insane, but Watkins was his own private devil and he couldn’t defeat him. No one could defeat a devil on their own.**

**And he was exactly that – all alone.**

**-x-**

**At first, Malcolm thought his mind had finally fractured and was conjuring up dream-scenarios to convince him to keep breathing. It was a tempting alternative; instead of laying on the ground with nothing but pain to fill his mind, he could simply draw in a deep breath and not let it go until the edges of his vision darkened. He’d tried once or twice, but his own body would then betray him and force him to draw in a new breath of air.**

**But the red and blue light shining through the window didn’t disappear. No matter how many times Malcolm blinked, waiting for darkness to fill the room again, the lights remained, hurting his eyes. They were familiar, the combination of colours unlocking something deep inside his memory, but each time the insight fought its way to the forefront of his mind, discouragement forced it back down.**

**And then there were heavy footsteps stomping on the wooden floors below him. Not one pair, but several, which either meant Watkins wasn’t alone, or he was gone and others were here. _Others_. The thought of other people inside the house had hope stir his limbs, but as he tried to move into a sitting position, he found his muscles too weak to move. With a groan, he pulled at the metal chain around ankles, desperate to make a sound, but the chain simply fell through his fingers and he lacked the strength to pick it back up.**

**Frustration swirled inside his stomach, making him feel ill. Malcolm parted his lips to scream, but found that no sound left his throat, causing resentment to fill his chest and press down on his heart. This was what he’d been reduced to; a weak and useless pile of bones and flesh. His thoughts were too incoherent to make sense of what was happening, too much pain fogging his mind. The lights outside flickered in and out of existence and the footsteps echoing through the old, withered house faded away.**

**This was Watkins’ doing, just another one of his twisted games to chip away some more of Malcolm’s sanity. That realisation made him turn away from the door – he was in no need to watch that madman enter with a pleased and joyous grin on his face – and curl in on himself, as far as that was possible. Shivers ran down his spine as pain shot through his body, and Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut.**

**Noise erupted outside the door. Malcolm held his breath and waited for Watkins to storm inside, but then the door opened – he heard the familiar creaking of the hinges and the scraping of wood against wood – and for a few long seconds, nothing happened. Still, Malcolm refused to move, to give into Watkins’ games. He was done following his rules. He was done indulging his whims. He was just _done_.**

**Watkins walked up to him and around him. Malcolm could feel the shift of air as the man kneeled beside him, and while he hated the closeness of the time, while a growing heat inside of him urged him to lash out, push him away, apathy quelled that heat and forced him to stay quiet. Nothing but a groan escaped him when he felt Watkins’ hand touched his neck.**

**“Bright?”**

**That wasn’t Watkins’ voice. It was too deep, too soft, too worried, and too caring. But before the sound could register and unlock different memories, reveal to him whose voice that really was, a hand folded around his injured wrist. Pain burst through his hand and clouded every thought darting through his mind, muddled every ounce of recognition that had stirred inside of him.**

**The pain and the fear that all this was still Watkins’ sick and twisted game made him bolt upright, shuffling away from that man as far as he could while cradling his throbbing and stinging hand. His eyes were wide open, but the room was too bright, and too many faces swarmed around him. He recognized none, their features all melting together and contorting. They floated around him, their edges blurred and unrecognizable. _Like all the demons he’d faced during his lifetime and were now being conjured up by Watkins._**

**“Bright,” said that same, painfully** **familiar voice again, but** **it, too, morphed into something unknown. The man kneeling in front of him, with a soft face and kind eyes, carefully crawled closer towards him. “It’s okay, kiddo, it’s us. We’ve found you.”**

**Malcolm knew that face. He _knew_ that face.**

**“Chief,” another voice said. He wanted to latch onto that voice, wanted to let it pull him in, because that voice, too, was familiar, one he had missed so hard, had longed to hear again, and now it was here, but it barely registered. As soon as it did, it faded again. “An ambulance is on its way.”**

**“Bright.” There were other voices speaking in the background, demanding and loud, sharp and poignant. Footsteps stamped around him, hurting his ears. Malcolm couldn’t focus, no matter how many times he blinked. The red and blue lights outside and the white ones from flashlights made him flinch whenever they shone in his face.**

**“ _Malcolm_.” It was the way his name was said that caused his attention to snap back to that soft face and kind eyes, the tone of that voice unlocking a flood of memories while realisation dawned upon him. _Malcolm_. Said ** **with pride and** **with annoyance, said with laughter in his voice, and sadness. _Malcolm_. Said with clear direction and determination, said with love and friendship. Gil had said his name a thousand times already, but never like that, never filled with such a burden. “Did you hear Dani? An ambulance will be here soon. Then we can take you away from this place.”**

**It became too much. Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. This was either Watkins playing a trick on him, or worse, his own mind having a good old time with him, hallucinating that which he’d longed and** **hoped for, for so** **long already. There was nothing more he’d wanted than to see Gil’s face again, than to hear his voice again, than to know that he’d found him and that this nightmare was finally over. And now it was happening? It couldn’t be.**

**“Malcolm, can you look at me again?” It really was Gil. No amount of drugs could conjure up such a vivid image. Relief and exuberance made his heart beat wildly inside his chest. His limbs began to tremble, with elation and alleviation. Malcolm could hear his own blood rush through his veins.**

**Gil reached out his hand and brushed his fingers down Malcolm’s arm. “Do you think you can walk** **?” he asked, and Malcolm would have laughed if it weren’t for the sudden sensation of suffocation** **, as if someone had just dropped a heavy rock onto his chest and wrapped a band around his throat, pulling it tight. After having been locked in this room for so long, one was bound to feel confined, but now Malcolm felt confined to his own body, trapped inside. He parted his lips to speak, to scream, out of fear and panic, but no sound left him.**

**His own body betrayed him. His heart beat too fast. His lungs couldn’t draw in air. His muscles spasmed, pulling together and making it impossible for Malcolm to move. He had no control over them, and then thinking became impossible, too. Only one word echoed inside his mind – _Gil, Gil, Gil_ – but he couldn’t reach out to him, couldn’t call for him, couldn’t let him know in any way how utterly terrified he felt.**

**And then, as quickly as the blink of an eye, Malcolm felt himself fall back, and the world around him disappeared.**


	11. Malcolm's Question

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very exciting chapter for me... I had so much fun writing this and I hope you'll enjoy the result.  
> Thank you, Littlebookowl, for sticking with me through this madness!  
> Thank you, followers of this story, for reading this madness!

“Hello, Sunshine.” The bird chirped in response, and Malcolm felt a smile curve the edges of his lips upward. His mother had never liked her, was always rolling her eyes at her or cringing whenever she cheeped too sharply to her liking, and Malcolm honestly couldn’t understand. Just the sight of the small creature made him feel lighter on his feet, her sounds calming him. “Did you miss me?”

“I think she has.” Ainsley came to stand beside him, her arms crossed before her chest, a contemplative look on her face. When Malcolm looked at her, guilt crashed into his stomach. For five weeks, she had lived not knowing what had happened to him. And then the weeks following that, she had lived worrying about him, not knowing where his head was at. “I’ve been feeding her while you were … gone, but she hasn’t been eating much.”

Malcolm’s attention shifted back to the bird and he reached out to stroke her feathers. “Thank you,” he said softly. He could feel Ainsley’s gaze on him like a physical weight pushing down on him. “For everything.”

“That’s alright.” Ainsley smiled. She turned to walk away, to give him space, and as she did, her blond locks fell across her shoulders.

Malcolm’s heart stuttered inside his chest as an image of a young, bound, crying girl flashed before his eyes. The sounds of her smothered sobs echoed in his ears, and Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to force that image away, and swallowed down the panic lodged in his throat.

“I was just glad I could do something, you know?” Ainsley was saying – she didn’t notice her brother’s sudden, but brief terror, had her back turned to him, which was fortunate for Malcolm; it gave him a moment to collect himself again, to push away the flashback that had taken a hold of him, and force his hands to stop trembling.

“You’re the reason I’m back at my loft.” Sunshine flew away from the top of her cage. Malcolm followed her for a moment, but then he looked at his sister standing by the window, her gaze fixed on the traffic outside. He could tell she was worried about him, had a dozen questions on her mind she would never dare ask him, and Malcolm wasn’t going to force them from her. “It’s nice being back here. If only for a little while.”

Outside, New York was busy as always. Taxis were moving through the city, pedestrians were crossing the streets, cars everywhere were honking, but from inside his apartment, it all felt so far away. Malcolm watched people moving by and found their faces vague. Alien.

“Ainsley,” he started, moving to stand beside her again. He placed a hand on top of her shoulder and forced his lungs to draw in a deep breath when she turned her brown eyes to him, reminding him of _her_. “You know I love you, right?”

A frown creased her brow. “Of course I know,” she said, her voice slightly higher than usual. “Do you know how I know that?”

The question caught him off guard, and the confusion must have been evident on his face, because Ainsley chuckled softly, her head shaking. “I was only four years old when Dad got arrested. I don’t remember much from that time, but I remember Mom being … absent.” She placed a warm hand on top of Malcolm’s which still rested on her shoulder. “I remember crying in my bed every night before falling asleep, until you heard me one evening. You crawled into bed with me, held me, and told me everything would be okay.” The smile lightening up her face was one of merriment, and sadness. “And you were right,” she finished. “Sort of.”

It was enough to steal a short burst of laughter from his lips. Malcolm couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled or felt at ease like this – but that brief peace of mind relaxing his muscles quickly got pushed aside by dread, an acute sense of fearful anticipation.

He knew what was going to happen, and she did not.

“I’d never hurt you, Ains,” he said with a shaking voice. “I’d never intentionally put you in harm’s way. You know that, too, right?”

Ainsley sucked in a sharp breath. “Malcolm, you’re scaring me now.”

The feeling that filled him, accompanied by a physical reaction, was one Malcolm hadn’t felt in a while, but one that remained frightfully familiar. A feeling of grave expectancy, one that made his head feel heavy, his thoughts muddied.

Sunshine had gone quiet.

“He’s here,” he whispered.

Ainsley blinked slowly. “Who is?”

Footsteps echoed loudly outside – at least, they appeared deafening to Malcolm’s ears, hurting his eardrums and drawing a faint whimper from his lips. The front door was pushed open, letting in a gust of wind that carried his smell, a smell Malcolm would recognize anywhere. A mixture of sweat and wood and blood.

“Oh God,” Ainsley gasped, her eyes widening with hysteria as she caught sight of the person standing behind Malcolm. She wanted to take a step away from her brother, possibly run to the other side of the apartment in a vain attempt to escape, but Malcolm still had his hand on her shoulder and he did not let her go.

As she spun away from him, Malcolm grabbed hold of her arm, pulled her back, and used the force of the momentum to knock her against the wall. The blow caused her head to slam against the bricks and a pained groan fell from Ainsley’s lips before her body went slack and she collapsed in Malcolm’s arms. As gently as he could, Malcolm laid his sister onto the carpeted floor and brushed her blonde hair from her face. He stared at her for a moment, at the oblivion which smoothed the lines of her features, and a pang of jealousy struck him.

“Hello, Malcolm.”

His breath faltered inside his chest and his hands began to shake. Rising to his feet, Malcolm sucked in a deep breath of air and slowly turned to face John Watkins standing in his living room, with a content smile on his face. “She’s harmless,” he told him, stepping in front of Ainsley’s unconscious form to shield her from Watkins’ preying gaze. “There’s no need for you to eliminate her.”

Watkins cocked his head sideways, his eyes falling on the youngest Whitley, and a thoughtful look crossed his face, but then he nodded. “I suppose not.” He had never been interested in her.

Relief filled Malcolm, and he released a shuddering breath he hadn’t known to be holding in.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Watkins said sharply, annoyance ringing clearly in his voice. He buried his hands into the pockets of his jeans where, undoubtedly, he curled them into angry fists. “What took you so long?”

“I’m here now. Surely, that’s what matters?” With courage he hadn’t known was buried inside of him, Malcolm took a step forward, closer to Watkins, and watched him raise an eyebrow at him. His confidence surprised him. “I’m ready,” he said with a steady voice. Perhaps the clear plan etched into the grooves of his mind made him stronger than he believed himself to be. Perhaps having a goal, a purpose, one he’d set out for himself a few days ago, was all he needed to drown out his perpetual fear. “Are you?”

“To go see your father?” The grin that filled Watkin’s face made Malcolm’s stomach twist into a knot. “I’m ready.”

-x-

His heart beat in his throat.

Malcolm’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as he walked through the halls of the Claremont Psychiatric Hospital, his footsteps echoing against the decrepit walls. Behind him, John Watkins was humming a nameless tune, and Malcolm couldn’t believe that they had gotten into the hospital undetected, had gotten through security without anyone stopping them.

No one had recognized Watkins, an idea that nearly made Malcolm burst with laughter. Mad laughter. The kind that would earn him a one-way ticket to a mental institute. Watkins had been controlling his life for weeks, had haunted his every thought and emotion, his face looming around every corner, waiting to frighten him, but no one else seemed the least bit concerned about the notorious serial killer walking the earth a free man. He’d been in the news, there had been a nation-wide manhunt organized by the FBI, but now no one _cared_.

Every step he took, brought them closer to his father, and his heart began to beat even more wildly in his throat. A thin layer of sweat covered his brow, and he was sure that, if he weren’t wearing a vest, Watkins would see his shirt sticking to his sweaty back.

“Do you think your father will recognize me?” Watkins sounded giddy, like a small child about to be set free in a playground.

Malcolm had to resist the urge to stop and turn, to look at him and ask him how the hell his mind ticked – his final chance perhaps, but instead Malcolm forced his feet to continue carrying him onwards. “You’ve been on the news quite frequently,” he said through gritted teeth. “And you kidnapped his son, so yes, I think he’ll recognize you.”

“You sound rancorous,” Watkins sing-songed before continuing to hum that annoying tune.

Malcolm said nothing in return, refusing to let Watkins draw him into a conversation that held no interest to him. His gaze was fixed on the door ahead, the one with a window that gave them a view of what was on the other side – namely another notorious serial killer known as The Surgeon. His father.

His nails dug into the palm of his right hand, his other being wrapped with a cast.

Mr. David stood before the door, his fingers playing with his security-pass, a bored expression on his face, but that changed as soon as he saw Malcolm approach. A polite smile curved the edges of his lips upward, a look of recognition filling his face. “Mr. Malcolm,” he said as he pushed himself away from the wall he’d been leaning against. “I didn’t know you were planning a visit today.”

“Unforeseen plans.” Malcolm smiled in return. It felt forced, that smile, but Mr. David didn’t seem to notice something different about him. “I brought someone today, but I’m sure my father won’t mind.”

“Are you working a new case already, so soon after–” He stopped himself and pressed his lips together until they were nothing but two thin lines. Malcolm knew what he was going to say, knew what was on his mind, and he felt relieved when Mr. David didn’t pursue his line of thinking. “Call me if you need anything,” he settled on as he unlocked the door and opened it, motioning a hand inside. “Your father is cuffed, but not chained to the wall. I can–”

“That’s fine,” Malcolm said.

Dr. Martin Whitley stood with his back towards them, in the center of the room – his cell – with his face turned upwards to a window which let in sunlight. He was bathing in the light as if it warmed him, but it was still February which meant everything was cold and covered with a thin layer of snow. Malcolm knew his father well enough to know he was simply … putting on a show.

Mr. David closed the door behind him.

A shudder ran down Malcolm’s spine.

Only after a moment did his father turn around, a giant smile spreading across his face upon seeing his son. “Malcolm, what a lovely surprise!” His cuffed hands rubbed together with expectation. “And you brought …” His smile wavered ever so slightly and his dark eyes narrowed. Clearly, this was unexpected, a variable he could never have anticipated. “A friend,” he settled on.

Watkins let his gaze roam around the room, taking in the bed in the corner, the desk in another, and the bookcase full of old patient-files he was somehow allowed to keep – Malcolm had stopped trying to figure that one out. “Dr. Whitley,” he said when his attention finally latched onto his old partner. “It has been a while.”

Martin’s eyes flickered between his two guests as he tried to understand what was happening, but Malcolm couldn’t bring himself to return his gaze. He stared at the ground and wondered how his father could ever understand him if he himself could barely keep up with everything that was happening.

“Yes, yes,” Martin said hesitantly. “It has indeed.” His gaze fell on his son’s form like a heavy weight pressing down on him. “Malcolm, my boy, are you quite alright? I would offer you a seat, but …” His gaze narrowed. “You look a little pale.”

The palm of his hand ached where his nails had broken through his skin. “I’m fine,” he forced out, and couldn’t help but think about Dr. Simmons. What would he think if he saw him standing here, surrounded by his manipulative captor and his equally manipulative father, with trembling hands and weak knees? What would Gil think? What would his mother?

Forcing those thoughts from his mind, Malcolm inhaled sharply through his nose and exhaled slowly through his mouth. He knew what his father saw when looking at him; a small, young, frightened boy who was in way over his head. A little bird with broken wings driven into a corner with no way out. Malcolm bit down on his tongue and blinked back tears that threatened to invade his eyes. Standing there with Watkins right beside him frightened him, had every fiber of his being screaming at him to _run_ , but he didn’t.

This needed to end, and Malcolm had to see this through to the end.

In his way.

“John, my old friend,” Martin said, his attention shifting to his second guest. “What have you done to my boy?”

Watkins toed the red line taped to the floor and clearly wondered what the purpose of it was, but then he looked back up at Martin again and grinned, revealing two rows of brown teeth. “I finished what you started,” he answered proudly, waving towards Malcolm and taking a step forward, closer to Martin, across the red line.

Whatever Watkins had expected, it wasn’t what he got. His father stared at him, unimpressed and pouted his lips for a moment. “And broke his hand in the process?” he asked as his eyebrows arched upwards.

Malcolm couldn’t help but hide his left hand behind his back, because he disliked their eyes on the cast, and because he hated that they would see how much his hand shook. All he really wanted, was to disappear. He wanted to press himself against the wall and be absorbed by it, or just vanish into thin air, because the room itself was growing smaller and smaller with every passing second, oxygen seemingly evaporating with every breath he took. The two men standing before him were looking at him with such pointed gazes he felt them prick his skin.

“That he deserved,” Watkins argued, nodding at Malcolm’s half-hidden hand. The man had an eerie talent of sounding angry without looking it. Malcolm swallowed heavily and reminded himself of why he was here, why he was enduring this. _To end it all_. “What is this red line for?” Watkins asked then, a newfound lightness to his voice.

“You’re not supposed to cross it,” Malcolm explained.

Watkins scoffed in return, unconcerned by the fact that he already stood on the wrong side of it. “This pains me,” he said forlornly, his attention returning to his old associate. “It truly pains me to see you like this, Doctor. What a waste of your talents.” His gaze lowered to Martin’s bound hands. “Do they always keep you in chains?”

His father blinked once, slowly. “Yes.”

Watkins chuckled, his dark eyes brightening with humor, and he gleefully clapped his hands together. “It seems you Whitley-men have an affinity for chains,” he laughed.

Malcolm’s stomach knotted together at those words, and for a moment, his feet were tied down again, heavy metal chains cutting into the skin around his ankles. For a moment, he was catapulted back to that attic-room where his blood stained the wooden floor. Nausea rippled through his body and Malcolm nearly lost his balance. _Nearly_. His father’s gaze was like a physical tether pinning him down, keeping him in place.

Martin Whitley was staring at him, watching him react to Watkins’ words and piecing together the puzzle laid out in front of him. His father was a smart man and this was a riddle he easily solved. Malcolm stared back at him, his own bright blue eyes piercing his dark brown ones, and he let him see him. He let his father see his fear and panic, his heartache and bewilderment. But most of all, he him see his anger. His rage.

“Did you say earlier that you finished what I started?” his father asked without looking away.

“You were always so convinced he looked like you.” Watkins casually walked from one side of the room to the other, following the red line. His hands were buried in the pockets of his jeans and his hair had fallen in front of his eyes, but that didn’t seem to bother him. “You wanted to teach him,” he continued, lost in thought. “But you never could, he didn’t let you, but now I’ve taught him.”

A shudder tore through him, and Malcolm had to swallow down a groan that threatened to leave him. His hands felt dirty suddenly, his skin covered with something warm and sticky, and when Malcolm glanced down at them, he saw blood dripping from the tips of his fingers onto the tiles beneath his feet. _Her blood_. Gasping, his eyes fluttering shut, he moved to wipe his hands clean against his shirt, but the blood was already gone.

His father was still staring at him.

“You were wrong,” Watkins said. “He looks nothing like you.”

“Malcolm.” His father’s voice was laced with concern, true, honest-to-God concern, which made Malcolm’s attention snap back to him, because that couldn’t be. Martin Whitley lacked the right social skills to act worried, and he certainly lacked the empathy that would make his worry real. “My boy.” Martin moved to stand in front of him and placed his cuffed hands on Malcolm’s shoulder. “You’re not okay, are you?”

There was no point in lying. His father may lack empathy, but he still had a knack for spotting a lie. It was a talent Malcolm had inherited from him. One of many, it turned out. “He broke me–” his voice was barely above a whisper, delicate and feeble, “–in any way he could. Like you would have done.”

His father’s fingers dug deep into the skin of Malcolm’s shoulder, hard enough to draw a faint hiss from his lips, but not heard enough to bruise. “No,” he argued with a curt voice, “I never had any intention of breaking you. My plans for you were very different.” He stood so closely now that Malcolm could feel his warm breath on his face. “I wanted to transform you and make you stronger.”

Malcolm shook his head. “The opposite is true now.” He felt anything but strong. During his thirty-five days of captivity, Watkins had taken great care in breaking him apart, piece by piece, until nothing was left. That was how Malcolm felt, like he’d been reduced to _nothing_. But that would soon change. He could rebuild himself, could gather all his broken pieces and set them together again, but not before Watkins had been dealt with.

“That’s not what I see.” His father’s voice, too, was low, but it wasn’t weak like Malcolm’s.

Watkins stood by the desk, his fingers brushing across the pages of an abandoned book his father had been reading. Malcolm had nearly forgotten he was there until he spoke with nothing but curiosity ringing in his voice, “What do you see then?”

His father continued to stare into his son’s eyes, unblinking, and Malcolm stared back at him, unafraid. He laid out his thoughts for him to read, with nothing but truth surrounding them, and it was such a strange feeling that his breath stuttered within his chest. Not a day had come and gone where he and his father had been this honest with each other. Not another day would come and go either. This moment was all they had.

“A question,” his father realized. “That’s what I see.”

“For so long …” Malcolm stopped, needing time to find the right words. His mind was still working more slowly than usual from the medication he took. Also, Watkins’ intense gaze on him unsettled him. “For so long, I convinced myself that some part of you must love me, despite your psychopathic tendencies, because I’m your son. Was I wrong?”

A bright, proud smile filled Martin Whitley’s face. His teeth were stark white compared to Watkins’. “Of course not.” His voice dripped with something Malcolm could only describe as adoration.

Unlike Malcolm had expected, his heart didn’t begin to thump wildly inside his chest. No, the contrary was true. Every beat of it felt thoughtful, purposely. “You know why I’m here,” he spoke so softly he wasn’t sure his father could hear him properly.

Martin Whitley’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but he nodded, once and determined. “Your question,” he said, equally soft. The smile on his face only broadened. “You’re more like your old man than you’re willing to admit. You know very well that I would never deny you this, your question.” His hands slipped off Malcolm’s shoulder. “This is why you came to me.”

Malcolm’s stomach twisted into a knot at his father’s words. “Yes,” he said. “That’s why I came to you.”

“What on earth–” Watkins sounded annoyed and bored, “–are you two whispering about?”

With a simple flick of his wrist, Malcolm felt something cold and hard slide from underneath his cast, into the palm of his hand. It was a small weapon, barely lethal in incompetent hands, but luckily for him, Dr. Martin Whitley’s hands were very skilled. With his heart now beating in his throat, Malcolm handed the knife to his father and let his gaze dart towards Watkins who was staring at them curiously, yet frustrated.

“You know …” his father started, his attention latched onto the weapon. He stood with his back towards Watkins. “I’ve always been very fond of my boy.”

Watkins rolled his eyes. “And?”

“And I could never say no to him,” Martin said, and Malcolm watched, with wide, horrified eyes, as his father spun around and swiftly planted the ceramic knife into Watkins’ chest.

Watkins’ bearded face contorted with surprise, his eyebrows shooting upwards, his lips forming a perfect ‘o’ as he sucked in a sharp breath of air that would never reach his lungs. No sound escaped him. Watkins’ hands latched onto Martin’s wrists in a desperate attempt to shove them away – which was a mistake. The moment Martin withdrew the weapon, blood streamed down his chest.

His legs gave out from underneath him. Watkins’ eyes stood wide, full of shock and disbelief, and his lips were drawn into a taut line, pained, but then he fell onto his back and every muscle in his body grew slack. His gaze became empty.

Malcolm couldn’t tear his attention away from him, couldn’t believe that he was truly gone, dead, _murdered_ , by his father.

Because he had asked him to.

“There,” his father said with a pleased sigh. “Done. One well-aimed stab to the heart.”

Relief flooded Malcolm’s veins and breathing became easier, but only for a second.

Only until the realization of what had happened dawned on him, of what he had done hit him like a rock crashing against his chest, tearing through his flesh. His father wiped Watkins’ blood from the weapon, the act seemingly casual, but the sight of it made the bottom of Malcolm’s stomach shift away. He gagged and had to press the back of his hand to his lips to stop himself from throwing up.

“I hope you liked my answer to your question.” His father held out the ceramic knife for Malcolm to take, but even if he wanted to accept it, he couldn’t. Malcolm’s muscles refused to listen anymore. Every vein in his body seemed to have been pulled taut, painfully so, to the point they threatened to burst.

The walls surrounding them were moving in on him, the room growing smaller and smaller with every heartbeat. Every color around him began to bleed. Malcolm stumbled back, away from Watkins’ corpse, and away from his father.

The ground swayed beneath his feet and he could taste sour bile in his mouth.

No matter how many times he blinked, everything began to lose its shape, the edges blurring.

“You’re welcome,” his father grinned.

Those words shifted something within him and those strings inside of him that had been pulled taut, his veins, snapped apart. Malcolm’s knees gave out from underneath him, but his father was there to catch him. Malcolm stared at him, knowing who he was, but his face had grown dark and unrecognizable. His eyes were black and his skin was grey. When he spoke, his voice sounded infernal and rumbled like that of a beast’s roar.

“Malcolm?”

Pushing his father away, Malcolm moved to lean against a wall where his father could no longer reach him, safe behind the red line. His fingers pressed against the concrete and his nails scratched at the paint until they bled. The smell of blood made him gag again.

“I thought you said you weren’t a murderer.”

Startled by the new, but familiar voice, Malcolm looked over his shoulder and found Mia standing by the door. She wore a white nightgown, like she always did, and had her arms crossed before her chest. A disappointed expression filled her face. He knew she wasn’t real – she couldn’t be – but there she stood, every line of her body sharp, and Malcolm reached out a hand to touch her, just to check, but she stood too far.

“He says many things,” another voice said. Malcolm whipped around to find his sister standing behind their father. She supported an equally disappointed look on her face. Her brown eyes swarmed with anger and her hands were balled into fists at her sides. “He said he would never hurt me, but then he went ahead and did just that.”

“No, I–” Malcolm started, but there wasn’t enough air in his lungs to finish that sentence. There wasn’t enough clarity in his mind to finish that thought.

Ainsley shook her head, her blonde curls dancing around her hard face.

“Malcolm, son …” His father stepped into his line of sight, forcing him to look at him, but Malcolm couldn’t. He blinked, rapidly, tried to shake the fog from his mind, but nothing changed. His head began to hurt. Like his wrist. His abdomen. The back of his leg. His ankles. “Who are you talking to?” his father demanded to know.

“You’re a liar,” Ainsley spat.

“And a murderer,” Mia sneered.

“No, I’m–” Malcolm tried again, but the words were lodged in his throat.

His father’s eyes had narrowed to slits, his attention darting to the closed door every now and again. Malcolm couldn’t tell whether he was afraid someone would enter or if that was exactly what he wished for. “You’re worrying me, son,” he said, drawing out the words, wanting Malcolm to hear them – which he barely did. “Is this your PTSD acting up again?”

Malcolm spun around, needing to get out of there, the walls of the cell still closing in on him, but as he stood before the door, his hand already around the knob, he stopped when he saw himself reflected in the window. Only he wasn’t wearing his blue vest and white shirt. In the reflection, he saw himself wearing the same white tunic as his father. His hands, too, were bound with a long, metal chain connecting him to the wall behind them, and a wicked, crazed smile split apart his face.

Malcolm resisted the urge to smash the window with his fist, and threw open the door instead. He ran through, nearly knocking over Mr. David as he rushed down the hall.

He ran, ignoring Mr. David’s demands to know what the hell was going on.

He ran, without hearing his father’s pleas to stop and wait.

He ran, without knowing where he was going.

He just ran.


	12. The Bridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second-to-last chapter. I wanted to wait for a few more days until I posted this, but since today is the final episode of the first season, I wanted to give you guys something extra, just to celebrate :D I hope you will enjoy this one! I may have gone a little overboard with the Malcolm-angst and whump, but... I don't care. Give me all the angst and whump! Here we go...

“Bright.”

He barely heard him.

Standing on the edge of the bridge, with his hands firmly around the railing to the point his knuckles had turned white, Malcolm listened to nothing but the coiling water below. It was hypnotising to see it twist and turn, forcing its way forward, dragging anything and everything with it. There was no force more powerful in nature. No storm was stronger, because that was temporary of nature. No fire was stronger, because of the same reason.

“Bright, can you hear me?”

Water found its way always. It might take years or decades; it might take centuries or even longer, but it would get to its destination and leave its mark behind. He’d always been fascinated by it, admired its destructive powers and its healing ones. Water could destroy anything in its path, but it could also build. It was the source of life, of everything. No one could survive without.

It was beautiful.

“Malcolm, please.”

Blinking, Malcolm slowly turned to look behind him.

The sky above him darkened, the day making way for the night, but the red and blue lights from the police cars illuminated their surroundings. They had arrived with screeching tires, everyone rushing towards him, only to halt as their lieutenant had ordered them to back off. Some officers were watching him, frowns on their faces, trying to understand what was happening, while others had a gun aimed at him from behind car-doors. As if they needed cover. As if he carried a gun himself and could be a threat to them.

He wanted to laugh at that notion, but nothing but a strangled noise left him instead.

“Please, Malcolm ...” Gil raised a hand, stretching it out towards him, wanting him to take it.

Malcolm stared at it, the idea of mirroring Gil’s movements sending shivers of discomfort down his spine. Part of him wanted to do as the lieutenant asked of him, part of him wanted nothing more than to reach out to him, feel the warmth of his hand, accept the help he was offering, but another part of him, a much stronger part of him, washed all that away. Like coiling water erasing his doubts. Nothing Gil had to offer could make it all go away. The pain, the heartache, the _madness_.

He longed for the water to wash it all away.

“I can’t,” he said. His voice didn’t sound like his own. It was too soft, too strange, too fragile, too broken.

“You’re not thinking straight, kiddo,” Gil argued. He took a step forward, and in response, Malcolm’s legs automatically took a step back. His back now pressed against the metallic railing. He knew it wasn’t possible, but he could hear the water below even more clearly than before.

Gil froze, his hand trembling as he kept it raised in the freezing air. “You’re on heavy medication,” he tried. “They’re clouding your judgement and whatever happened at the Claremont Psychiatric–”

“I know what I’m doing, Gil.” Malcolm had whispered the words so he wasn’t sure Gil had heard them. He wasn’t sure he wanted or needed them heard. None of this was supposed to happen; they weren’t supposed to find him. He’d wanted to do this alone. It would have been so much easier.

“Malcolm, _please_.”

With swiftness he hadn’t known he possessed, he climbed on top of the railing.

“Malcolm!” Gil screamed.

Some of the officers lifted their guns.

This time, Malcolm did manage a laugh. Short and loud and strange. He knew what he sounded like – like a madman, so he stopped, instantly, because he didn’t want Gil to think that he didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t want him to think it was the drugs in his system making him crawl on top of the railing, because it wasn’t. After his visit to his father, after what he had done to Watkins because he had asked him to, his mind had searched for an answer, and it had found one. 

An extreme one, but it felt like the only one.

The moment he had decided, his head had been clearer than ever before.

“It’s alright, Gil.” He stared at the icy water below. It would swallow him and take him away. It would quieten his mind and wash away his guilt. That was all he longed for – this guilt to stop eating him from the inside out, like a thousand ants biting their way out of his chest. “It’s all going to be alright.”

“No, Malcolm, it’s not,” Gil tried desperately. The tremble to his voice, the hesitation, betrayed his thoughts. He was considering his options, his mind racing to try and fix this, but he wouldn’t be able to. No scenario in his mind would end with a satisfying result. Malcolm would make sure of it.

The guilt inside of him twisted and churned, cutting him.

His breathing slowed down. His muscles relaxed.

Malcolm felt calm for the first time in a long time. For the first time since Watkins had taken him. His eyes fluttered shut and a few tears escaped him. They cut across his skin, like knives, while image after image flashed before his eyes, reminding him of everything that had happened, of everything he was responsible for. Every image was covered with a thick layer of redness.

“Talk to me, kiddo,” Gil said. “Just … please … talk to me.”

Malcolm lifted his hands and stared at them. They were covered with blood; it dripped from his fingers, into the water below, but they weren’t shaking. In fact, they were as steady as a rock. _I will always love you_ , his father had whispered to him all those years ago, _because we’re the same_. Sighing, Malcolm let his father’s words echo through his mind, again and again. It had been an idea he’d fought since he was ten years old, an idea he’d discarded as soon as he’d been old enough to know that his father was a narcissistic, egotistical, manipulative sociopath who had wanted to mould him to his image, but it seemed there was more truth to his words than he dared to admit.

“I killed her.” The words left him without his permission, but now that they had been said, he felt a little better. Lighter. Exhaustion crashed into him and Malcolm wanted only rest, but Gil needed to know. He couldn’t do this without a clean conscience. _She_ deserved this. “The girl you found at Watkins’ house … She isn’t one of his victims, Gil, she’s mine.”

For a few long seconds, there was only silence. Deafening silence, broken by only the water below. Malcolm wanted to turn around and see the look on Gil’s face, wanted to witness the horror and disgust contort his features, wanted to see the pain of the realisation flash behind his eyes, because it would only be more proof, another sign telling him that he was doing the right thing. The water beneath him drew him in, however, violently demanding his attention and keeping it.

“Malcolm …” Gil’s voice was brittle. “Don’t do this.”

“I should have been stronger.” Malcolm couldn’t stop himself. Now that the first words had been spoken, he needed the rest said as well. Inhaling sharply, he searched for the right words, but barely found them. Was there a good way to confess something like this? His knees threatened to buckle underneath him. “Watkins captured her for me and I tried so hard to stop him, but I ...” Thinking back to that moment where he first saw her, Malcolm could hear her cries again, hurting his ears, and taste her panic, making his stomach knot together violently.

He brought his hands before him and wondered if the blood sticking to his skin was real or not. He wondered if what had happened at the Claremont Psychiatric Hospital was real or not.

“I failed,” he confessed.

Leaning forward a little, only one hand around the metal of the bridge, he let the cold March-breeze comb through his hair and brush across his face. It dried his tears and blew away his doubts, blew away the memories suffocating him and eased his guilt.

When he looked aside, she stood beside him, barefooted, wearing only a white nightgown which was stained red near her belly. Her long, blonde hair whipped around her face, obscuring her tearful, red eyes. She wasn’t real, Malcolm _knew_ she couldn’t be. This was his mind conjuring her to be with him, because she understood him, had gone through this, too, was still going through this. His mind had chosen her, so that he would feel a little less alone, but she still appeared very real, every detail about her sharp and crisp.

“Malcolm, no,” Gil called.

“It’s alright, Chief.”

Mia stared at him with impossibly dark eyes. They reminded him of his sister. The corners of her lips curved upwards ever so slightly, her smile sad, and her hand reached out to him. Malcolm took it and found her skin cold. Her colour was fading, her body withering, but her grip was strong.

“I’m not alone,” he muttered, more to himself than to Gil. “It’s all going to be alright.”

“No!”

Just as he wanted to take that final step, together with Mia, a shot rang through the air and the pain that followed was instant and searing hot, tearing through the flesh and muscle of his shoulder, stealing his breath. Malcolm desperately gasped for air that never reached his lungs, and he was forced back. Mia’s hands were hopelessly reaching for him, wanting to pull him towards the water, but two stronger hands pulled him back and away from the railing.

As he fell on his back, the last air in his lungs was knocked from him and the edges of his vision darkened.

He screamed in pain.

“It’s okay, Malcolm.” Gil’s face hovered above him. His hands pressed against the side of his face and brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Can you hear me? You’re gonna be okay.”

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut in a vain attempt to master the pain and organize his thoughts. This wasn’t what he’d wanted. This wasn’t what he needed. Inhaling sharply, he could taste his own blood on his tongue and bile rose up his throat. Someone was pressing something against his wound, trying to stop the bleeding, and Malcolm angrily tried to push that hand away, tried to let the blood flow, but Gil grabbed hold of his wrists and kept them locked against his heaving chest.

“Malcolm, look at me.” Gil’s voice was pleading, a mixture of worry and relief, of fear and frustration and panic, of alleviation and confusion. “Malcolm, are you with me?”

His gaze flitted around his surroundings, the edges of his vision slipping in and out of focus. Voices sounded near and far, and the lights of the police cars hurt his eyes. Gil was saying something, his grip on Malcolm’s wrists unrelenting, and then Dani came running towards them, a gun in hand.

She had been the one who shot him, Malcolm realised, from somewhere near the river bank.

A flash of rage swept through his veins.

JT rushed towards her and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

His gaze continued to search, flitting past familiar faces and past familiar voices, until he found her again. Only then did his lungs draw in a breath of fresh air. His heart beat wildly inside his chest. Her white nightgown was now completely red, her blood having spread. Her limbs trembled and her lips had turned blue. Her long, blonde hair stuck to the edges of her tear-stricken face which was coloured with bruises.

Mia stretched out a hand again, asking him to take it – and he wanted to, tried to with all the strength left in his body to reach out to her, to take her hand, but Gil’s grip was too strong.

“Malcolm, are you with me?” Gil shook him, demanding his attention – and Malcolm did as was asked. He looked at Gil, finding it difficult to focus on him, to lock gazes with him, but he did, if only to see his disappointment. “Stay with me, Malcolm,” he continued. “An ambulance is on its way.”

“Gil …” Breathing became painful, speaking even more so. Darkness was slowly creeping towards him. “I’m … sorry.” His eyes fluttered shut. There were hands on his body he couldn’t recognize. There were voices he wasn’t sure were real.

Was any of this even real?

“Malcolm.” Gil shook him again. “You’ve got to stay with me, do you hear me?”

Somewhere past Gil, Mia walked towards the edge of the bridge.

Malcolm watched her, blinking as he did, refusing to let the darkness swallow him just yet, because he had to see her. He wanted to call out to her. Mia climbed on top of the railing, blood dripping from her gown.

“No,” he gasped, shocked. Gil was shouting something at him, wanting him to stay focused, wanting him to look at him, but all Malcolm could do, could look at, was _her_. She gazed at him from across her shoulder and, with a faint smile playing around the edges of her lips, she took a step forward, falling and disappearing. “ _No!_ ”

The sounds of an ambulance drew closer.

“Malcolm, there’s no one–”

“She left me,” Malcolm gasped, panic throbbing throughout him. Gil forced him to look at him again, his fingers firmly around his chin. His entire body began to shake. “She _left_ me.” There was only a small voice in the back of his head that told him she wasn’t real, that she wasn’t dead, because a person could only die once.

It became too much.

His entire body tensed and he wanted to scream – let out his anger and pain and frustration and madness – but his lungs didn’t have enough air.

“You’re gonna be okay, Malcolm,” Gil repeated, but it was clear he barely believed his own words. Malcolm wanted to laugh, but he didn’t have enough air for that either. “Do you hear me, kiddo? We’ve got you and we’re gonna look after you. We’re going to help you.” He squeezed Malcolm’s hands, wanting him to feel him, wanting him to know he wasn’t alone, wanting him to know he was real, but Malcolm couldn’t trust his own mind anymore.

He couldn’t tell what was real or not anymore.

“The ambulance is here,” JT said.

Malcolm sighed and focused on the feeling of Gil’s fingers around his hands. _I hope you liked my answer to your question_ , his father had said, _you’re welcome_. Because there was no escaping destiny, there was no escaping Dr. Martin Whitley, no matter how much he willed it. No matter how much Gil willed it. The girl was dead because of him. John Watkins was dead because of him.

“Malcolm?” Gil’s voice sounded somewhere far away. “Open your eyes, Malcolm.”

He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

“ _Malcolm!_ ” Panic surged in Gil’s voice.

He didn’t want to do this to him, had wanted to do this alone, but if this was how it was to happen, then so be it. Darkness engulfed him, like a physical shadow creeping closer, catching him by his feet first. Then it crawled its way up his body, up his legs and knees and thighs, up his stomach and chest.

It pushed aside the guilt suffocating him.

“Kiddo, stay with me, you hear me?”

Up his hands and wrists and arms. Up his chest and neck and face. Breathing became impossible, the shadow covering his lips with an icy touch, but he welcomed the feeling.

Oblivion was calling to him.

“ _Malcolm!_ ”

And then with one strong pull, the shadow pulled him under.

-x-

“–so much for coming.” That was his mother’s voice. Malcolm’s eyelids were too heavy to force open, so he kept them shut for a little while longer, letting consciousness slowly return to him instead of letting it crash against his chest like a violent wave crashing against a rocky shoreline. “Have you spoken to Dr. Blake?”

“I have.” It was a familiar voice, one Malcolm had heard before, but he couldn’t place it, not yet. “He told me what happened on the bridge.”

 _The bridge_. Malcolm’s head began to ache as memories flooded his mind. Image after image returned to him, with vibrant colours that hurt his eyes. Still, he kept them shut despite the innate desire to force them open and force away the memories coercively demanding his attention. He remembered what happened at the Claremont Psychiatric Hospital, remembered his father and Watkins. He remembered the feeling of the weapon he’d smuggled inside sliding into the palm of his hand. He remembered his father’s knowing grin and he remembered the swiftness of his motions as he’d spun towards his old friend and stabbed him through the heart.

“I don’t know what has gotten into him.” His mother’s voice sounded an octave deeper than usual, which betrayed the emotions running through her veins. She sounded frightened and insecure, which wasn’t how Malcolm knew her. “Gil told me something … horrible must have happened in his father’s cell.”

 _The bridge_. Malcolm only remembered bits and pieces. It had been cold, that he remembered. The icy wind had brushed across his face and had dried tears that had unknowingly escaped from him. He remembered staring at the water and finding it … consuming. Mia had been there as a figment of his imagination which was an odd choice for his mind to turn to, but Malcolm had long ago given up on trying to make sense of his thoughts.

“He’ll be able to tell us what happened once he wakes,” the familiar voice said again.

“What has Martin said?” his mother asked. She moved around the bed and brushed a hand through his hair. Malcolm would have sighed at her warm touch, but he wasn’t ready yet to let his visitors know he was awake.

“Funnily enough, nothing,” another voice spoke; Gil. He had been there at the bridge and had offered him a shaky hand to help him off the ledge he’d crawled on, but Malcolm had been unable to accept his offered help. His dark gaze had revealed nothing but shock and fear and desperation, his voice the same. Now he sounded softer, calmer. Malcolm hated himself for having put him through such a terrible scene at the bridge, understood now that it wouldn’t have solved anything, but back there … He hadn’t been able to see a different way out.

“He’s never been any help,” his mother snapped angrily.

“We must be prepared.” That familiar voice again. A sharp pain blossomed near the front of Malcolm’s head as he tried placing that voice. “Malcolm might wake up and remember nothing, or he might wake up and remember everything. In any case, we need to be prepared to help him.”

“What are you thinking?” Gil asked.

Only then did Malcolm recognize that voice. It was Dr. Simmons who stood at the foot of his bed. “I can’t be sure,” the psychiatrist started, “but I have a suspicion that Malcolm went through a psychosis on the bridge.” He sighed, paused, and Malcolm imaged his mother and Gil were staring at him with wide, concerned eyes. “I think he wasn’t fully aware of what he was doing–”

“I was aware, Doc,” Malcolm forced out – _forced_ , because his voice was hoarse and scratched his painfully dry voice.

“Malcolm?” His mother curled a hand around his wrist. “You’re awake!”

Blinking open his eyes, Malcolm offered her a faint, but warm smile, which she returned. She seemed even older than before, and guilt returned to him, pressing down on his chest, crushing his ribs. Malcolm groaned and tried pushing himself into a sitting position, but pain burst from his shoulder and ran all the way to the tips of his fingers.

“Keep still,” Gil warned, pressing a hand to his uninjured shoulder. “Or you’ll rip your stitched.” He, too, offered him a faint, but warm smile. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“I knew what I was doing on the bridge,” Malcolm said, his attention slipping to the doctor standing at the foot of his bed. Dr. Simmons eyed him cautiously, worried. His hands were folded around the metal frame of the hospital bed. “Sort of, anyway,” he admitted reluctantly. Truth be told, Malcolm didn’t remember every detail. “I knew why I was there and I knew what I wanted.”

“You wanted to kill yourself,” Dr. Simmons said rather blatantly.

His mother gasped in shock.

Malcolm appreciated his blunt honesty. It was why he liked him. “In that moment, yes,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “Because my mind wasn’t exactly … my own.” It was difficult explaining what had gone through his head back there. It was even more difficult putting in words what he’d felt and thought. “After what happened with Watkins …” Inhaling sharply, Malcolm found he had trouble putting in words what he felt and thought right now, too. “It became too much.”

“You were experiencing a severe episode of PTSD,” Dr. Simmons said, putting together the pieces of this very complex puzzle. “You latched onto a certain thought and acted on it on automatic pilot. Mr. Arroyo declared you were seeing things that weren’t there.”

“Yes,” Malcolm confessed begrudgingly, and ignored the shock that flitted across his mother’s gaze. “But I knew she wasn’t real.”

“You have a complex mind, Malcolm,” Dr. Simmons said, and Malcolm wasn’t sure he meant it as a compliment. “With everything that has happened to you, now and in the past, you’ve developed a very distinct, peculiar coping mechanism. Some things you bury, others you don’t, but what you’ve buried is bound to dig its way to the surface again.”

Malcolm groaned. “I’ve noticed.”

“So …” Gil started then. He took a step forward, closer to the bed, and crossed his arms before his chest. It was a classic sign of wanting to create distance, but Malcolm knew the Lieutenant well enough to know that this was simply his way of composing himself. And to hide the tension to his muscles. “Do you remember what happened at the Claremont Psychiatric Hospital?”

“I do.” Staring into Gil’s dark eyes, Malcolm could read every thought inside the man’s head. He’d always been a closed book to his colleagues, but not to him, and that had nothing to do with his profiler-skills. Malcolm simply knew him better than anyone. “And I’m not proud of it.”

“It’s alright.” His mother brushed a lock of hair from his eyes.

“What did my father say exactly?” Malcolm asked.

Gil’s gaze flickered from Malcolm to Jessica to the psychiatrist. “He said he killed Watkins.”

Closing his eyes for a moment, Malcolm let the image of Watkins’ wide, shocked eyes return to him. He remembered the gasp that had left him and he remembered the blood flowing down his chest. His death had been quick and swift, which wasn’t what he deserved, but it was what Malcolm had given him. If he closed his hand, he could almost feel the ceramic knife between his fingers. He _could_ feel his blood stick to his skin.

“He did,” Malcolm said as his eyes remained shut for a little while longer. He remembered his father turning to him with a grin spread across his face. “He stabbed Watkins through the heart, because I asked him to.” Opening his eyes, he first looked at his mother. She stared at him with confusion on her face. Then he looked at Gil and found him equally confused, but there was anger behind his eyes, too. Anger directed towards his father, as if this was _his_ manipulation, while it wasn’t. Finally, he looked at Dr. Simmons and found him simply staring back at him without judgement, only understanding. “I snuck the knife into the cell and gave it to my father, knowing what he’d do with it.”

“That’s what set off the episode,” Dr. Simmons realised. “Watching your father murder John Watkins made you snap.”

Malcolm pressed a hand to his face, wanting the memories to disappear now, but he knew he’d have to live with them for the rest of his life. “That’s when they showed up,” he continued softly, unsure if these were details he wanted his mother to know. She would never look at him the same way again, but perhaps that was what he deserved. “Ainsley and Mia. I knew they weren’t real, knew they couldn’t be there, but they were and I couldn’t … I couldn’t ignore them.”

“Oh, Malcolm,” his mother sighed.

“I’ve become the one thing I was always afraid of becoming.” Malcolm lowered his hand again and stared at it. His skin was clear, clean, but he could still feel the blood sticking to it. “I murdered that girl–” He needed to force out the words now, needed them said, despite their eagerness to stay lodged in his throat. “I stabbed her.”

“We know,” Gil said.

That threw him off guard.

Frowning, Malcolm turned his attention to the lieutenant, unsure if he’d heard him correctly. “You knew?” he asked.

Gil’s arms were still crossed in front of his chest, but Malcolm could see his hands underneath, balled into tight fists. To prevent them from fidgeting. “Yes, we knew,” he admitted hesitantly. His attention slipped across the room, towards Jessica, towards Dr. Simmons, but Malcolm wouldn’t have any of it. He shifted where he lay and forced himself into a sitting position after all, ignoring the physical pain throbbing through his body. “We never said anything, because we weren’t sure …” Gil lowered his head and sighed heavily. “We weren’t sure you remembered.”

“How–” Malcolm found himself unable to form coherent sentences.

“Your fingerprints were all over the knife that was used to kill her,” Gil explained. “We found a few of your hairs on her nightgown and we found her blood underneath your fingernails. We swapped them when you were first brought to the hospital. You were unconscious.”

It all made sense.

It all made perfect sense. This was standard procedure after all, but Malcolm still felt … violated. And betrayed. For weeks, he’d been carrying around this burden, had been trying to think of ways to confess to this horrifying story, to come clean, but they had known all along. Now no one would ever look at him the same way again – perhaps that was for the best. That was what he deserved. He should have been stronger.

“Watkins made me–” He stopped himself and angrily wiped away tears escaping the corners of his eyes. He wouldn’t search for excuses.

“I don’t think this is the time to talk about this,” Dr. Simmons said.

“I agree,” Gil said.

“There’s never a right time to talk about something like this,” Malcolm argued angrily. His shoulder hurt like hell, but he welcomed the pain now. He focused on it, because he deserved it. “There will never be a right time to discuss what I did at the Claremont Psychiatric Hospital either.”

“Yes, there will,” Dr. Simmons countered. “You’re on heavy pain-medication, Malcolm. They’re clouding your memories and thoughts.” Only now did Malcolm notice the IV sticking in his arm. He nearly tore it out, until he remembered what happened last time he did. “Once you’re better, you can return to my clinic and we can talk about this as much as you want.”

“Your clinic?” Malcolm felt himself deflate, tension seeping from his muscles. He suddenly had trouble sitting upright, but his mother and Gil were already there to help him lay down again. They pushed a pillow behind his back, though, to make him more comfortable – another thing he didn’t deserve. “I didn’t think I’d be welcome again, after I betrayed your trust.”

“You haven’t betrayed my trust.” Dr. Simmons offered him another smile. “Although I do think you owe your sister an apology.”

Malcolm didn’t even want to imagine how angry Ainsley was with him.

“The room is still yours,” Dr. Simmons added.

Malcolm let his head fall back onto the pillow and closed his eyes, suddenly aware of how exhausted he felt. Getting shot was pretty painful, it turned out, but he owed Dani an apology, too. He felt like he owed everyone an apology. “Thank you,” he said after a short moment of silence. What he wanted more than anything was to go home, but he knew well enough he wasn’t ready for that yet.

He needed help, _proper_ help, and he needed to _accept_ that help.

“I’ll see you soon, Malcolm.” Dr. Simmons grabbed his coat laying on the chair in the corner of the room and shrugged it on. “Focus on getting physically better first, and then we’ll handle the rest.”

Just before he left the room, Malcolm called out to him again. Only when he’d turned and connected gazes with him again, did Malcolm ask, “Will Mia still be there?”

Dr. Simmons frowned. “Mia?”

“Yes, Mia,” Malcolm said. “She’s one of your patients at the Jacob Roy Psychiatric Hospital, too. She was kidnapped like me, and–” He stopped when Dr. Simmons’ frown turned from confused to concerned to disturbed. His breathing quickened. “There is no Mia back at the clinic, is there?”

Dr. Simmons stared at him. “No, there isn’t.”

“Can you blame a girl?”

Malcolm’s breath faltered inside his lungs.

She sat in the corner of the room, on the same chair from which Dr. Simmons had just picked up his coat, with her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. Her long blonde hair curled loosely around her shoulders. Her nightgown was pristinely white again. “Don’t look at me like that, Malcolm, like I’m betraying you. I’m a figment of _your_ imagination.”

Dr. Simmons took a step closer to the bed. “Malcolm,” he started cautiously. “Is she here right now?”

He could lie and shake his head in a desperate attempt to appear a little less insane, but who was he kidding?

“Yes,” he answered truthfully. “She’s sitting on that chair.”

“Now _I_ feel betrayed,” Mia said as she stood and approached the bed as well. She stood right next to the doctor, but he couldn’t see her. His mother couldn’t see her and neither could Gil, because none of them were losing their minds. “I’m here to help you, Malcolm. I’ve only ever helped you.”

“How?” _No, stop_. He shouldn’t talk to someone who wasn’t real. He turned his attention to Dr. Simmons and silently pleaded to him to help him.

“I was there when you just arrived at the clinic, feeling lost and unstable.” She stepped around Dr. Simmons, letting her finger slide across his shoulders and back, but the doctor didn’t feel anything. “I was there when you were feeling low and unable to get away from your thoughts, and I was there when you came up with that plan to eliminate Watkins.”

His mother sat down on the bed beside him and folded her hands around his. “Malcolm, look at me,” she said. “We’re going to help you, do you hear me? You’ve gone through a lot, through enough to have most people break, but this won’t break you, because you’re stronger than any of us have ever been.”

“I’m in no need for a mellow pep talk, mother,” Malcolm snapped angrily. He pulled his hands away from hers, only to feel Mia’s cold fingers curl around them instead. His heart was beating viciously inside his chest.

“I was there after Watkins died and I was there on the bridge,” she said.

“You wanted to jump with me,” Malcolm hissed, only to press his lips together, because he was arguing with a figment of his imagination. Shaking his head, he tried to erase her, but she sat beside him and looked very real. She _felt_ very real.

“Because that’s what you wanted,” Mia said. “I only ever did what you wanted me to do.”

“Malcolm.” Dr. Simmons snapped his fingers, demanding Malcolm’s attention. “You can’t engage her.”

She reached out to him and brushed a cold hand down his cheek.

 _I only ever did what you wanted me to do._ That was when he understood. Malcolm reached out to her in return and brushed his fingers through her long, blonde hair. He knew what he must look like to the others, how insane and broken he must appear, but this was something he needed to do. “I’m sorry I killed you,” he told her quietly, and watched her lips curl into a sad smile. “I’m sorry you’re the one Watkins chose and that I couldn’t stop him.”

She leaned into his touch. “I wish I could say none of this is your fault,” she whispered. “But I can only say what you want me to say.”

This was how he’d tried to keep her alive, but now it was time to let her go. “It’s alright,” he said. Her white nightgown turned red again and the smell of blood filled his nostrils, but none of this was real. Malcolm knew that now. Still, he felt tears trickle down his cheeks. “I don’t need your help anymore.”

He blinked once, and she was gone.

A sigh of relief escaped his lips. His hand hovered in the air for a moment, and then he lowered it. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his mother or at Gil. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at Dr. Simmons.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. His hair fell before his eyes again.

His mother brushed it back. “Tell us what you need, honey.”

“Rest.” Malcolm let his eyes flutter shut and wondered if that was truly the last time he had seen her. “I need rest.”

“Then sleep,” Gil said. His hand curled around Malcolm’s shoulder. “We’ll be right here when you wake up.”

Malcolm nodded once, sleep already dragging him under, which he welcomed.

“I know.”


	13. Moving On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could not have written this story without the help of LittleBookOwl. Thank you so much for sticking with me through the madness that was this story!
> 
> Without further ado... The final chapter!

His left hand was throbbing, as it so often did, despite having lost the cast last week. With his right hand, Malcolm kept rubbing the palm of his left, which offered a little relief, but not much. Staring at it, he found his fingers slightly swollen, the angle slightly different – or perhaps that was his imagination. It was a strange feeling to have lost the cast, as if his hand wasn’t really his own anymore.

“–even listening?”

His attention snapped to the man standing by his bed with his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans and his hair a little greyer than a few weeks earlier. His beard was greyer, too. Gil Arroyo stared at him with a frown creasing his brow, his eyes slightly narrowed, concern lining his features. It seemed to be a look that was continuously plastered on his face.

“You weren’t listening, were you?” he asked, one eyebrow shooting up.

Malcolm sighed. “No, sorry.”

Gil stepped around the bed and joined him by the window where Malcolm was bathing in sunlight. The sun was finally starting to give off warmth. February had come and gone and now spring was in the air. Colour returned to nature, and Malcolm revelled at it. Why, he couldn’t really say. He just felt better now that the sky was a little less grey and the days lasted a little longer.

“Does it hurt?” Gil asked, nodding towards the cradled hand.

Truth be told, Malcolm hadn’t been aware that he’d been rubbing circles into the palm of his nearly-fully healed hand. There were a lot of things he wasn’t aware of as Dr. Simmons had so kindly pointed out. Malcolm hated to think that he had _tells,_ but Dr. Simmons knew when he felt uncomfortable, because he kept drumming his fingers to any surface nearby. He knew when he felt angry, because he clenched his jaw. He knew when he felt tired, because he kept smiling forcibly. He knew when he was feeling annoyed, because he kept saying he felt fine.

“Only when I think about it,” he answered and dropped his hands, stretching his fingers. “Which is pretty much all the time. There’s little to distract me around here.”

Gil hummed, folded a hand around his and began to massage his fingers, which at first made a frown appear on his face, but then drew a sigh of relief from his lips. Malcolm closed his eyes as the throbbing pain slowly ebbed away.

“Tell me about the case you’re working on,” he said after a short moment of silence.

One of Gil’s eyebrows arched upward.

“Come on, Chief.” Malcolm rolled his eyes. “What harm is there in talking about work. It’ll distract me, which will be nice.” A grin then curved the edges of his lips upward. “Nothing happens around here. The closest I got to a proper distraction was when a fellow patient lost his diary last week and I helped him track it down.”

Curiosity flickered behind Gil’s dark eyes. “Was it stolen?”

“No,” Malcolm groaned. “He’d misplaced it.” It had been quite the anti-climax to an otherwise uneventful day, but at least the afternoon had gone by quickly. And he’d made the other patient happy. Dr. Simmons had even thanked him for his help and had offered him a second dessert – lemon-flavoured Jell-O, which Malcolm had accepted with a giant smile on his face. “So, come on, tell me.”

“Later perhaps.” Gil let go of his hand and reached into the pocket of his vest. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about first. I brought you something.” He hesitated, his hand now pressed to his chest. It was enough to pique Malcolm’s interest, his shoulders squaring ever so slightly, the edges of his lips curving upward. “I’ve discussed this with Dr. Simmons, extensively to be honest, but he concurred that this might help your … healing-process.” He revealed what seemed to be a photograph.

Malcolm frowned, unsure of what Gil had brought him, his mind unable to piece together the different parts of the puzzle – another sign that he wasn’t quite there where he wanted to be.

“If you don’t want this, tell me,” Gil said.

Gingerly accepting the photograph, Malcolm’s heart skipped a beat as he stared at a familiar pair of dark brown eyes looking back at him. Her long blonde hair was tied into a tight ponytail and her lips were a shade of soft pink. Malcolm barely recognized her, but it was definitely _her_.

His hands began to shake.

“This was a terrible idea–” Gil was already reaching for the picture, but Malcolm pulled it out of his reach.

“No,” he said, taking a step back. His throat had turned dry, as had his mouth, so he swallowed heavily and hoped to quickly compose himself again. “I’m alright,” he promised. Mia was smiling in the picture, her cheeks slightly flushed, and Malcolm noticed she had a small scar near her ear. She looked relaxed and comfortable, her gaze soft and inviting, and Malcolm couldn’t stop staring at her.

“This is how you should remember her,” Gil explained, pointing at the picture.

“What’s her name?” Malcolm asked.

“Charlotte Brewster.” Gil folded his hands before his stomach, the muscles to his neck and shoulders relaxing now that he seemed reassured that Malcolm wasn’t going to break, that he hadn’t made a monumental mistake. “Don’t remember her as a frightened, crying victim, but as an energetic, intelligent, and bright young girl. That’s how her parents want you to remember her.”

His vision blurred, tears invading his eyes, and Malcolm quickly blinked them away even though he didn’t mind Gil seeing them. These weren’t tears of anger, after all. They weren’t even tears of fear or pain. No, what he felt was … gratitude. “You spoke to them?” he asked with a shaky voice. If he were to hold onto the picture more tightly, he’d crease it.

“Yes, they wanted you to have it.”

He was lost for words, which might be a first in his life. Malcolm couldn’t tear his gaze away from Mia – no, _Charlotte_ , and let every detail of her appearance register in his mind. He wanted to etch her into his memory and never forget. This _was_ how he wanted to remember her, because she didn’t deserve to be remembered as a crying and bleeding girl, subjected to the whims of a madman. He didn’t want to be remembered like that either.

“Dr. Simmons told me you were making good progress,” Gil said then.

Malcolm had to tear his gaze away from her. “Yes,” he answered, “he said I might be able to go home for a weekend soon. Under the strict supervision of mother, of course.” He doubted she would ever leave him out of her sight again, which was a notion that sent shivers down his spine. Malcolm didn’t want to imagine what life was going to be like with Jessica Whitley constantly following him around and treating him as a baby. Hell, he was sure she would have a heart-attack if he told her he wanted to go back to work as soon as possible. He was pretty sure Gil would have a heart-attack, too, so he swallowed that idea. For now.

“So …” Gil hesitated, biting down on his lip for a moment.

“So?”

“No more hallucinations?”

“Rest assured, Chief,” Malcolm said. “No more hallucinations.”

Gil stared at him for a moment, as if searched for the lie in his eyes, but when he seemed assured Malcolm was telling him the truth, he smiled back at him. “Good,” he said. “That’s good.”

-x-

He had known the moment Ainsley had parked the car that there was something she needed to tell him. Well, he had known since she had picked him up at the hospital, but he hadn’t wanted to pry. He felt like he didn’t deserve that privilege yet, despite having apologized profusely for what he’d done and Ainsley continuously assuring him that she understood and was now fine despite the small bruise still lingering just above her ear. Right now, however, a sense of foreboding crept down his spine, because Ainsley kept both her hands on the steering wheel and her gaze firmly fixed on the car parked in front of them.

“Out with it, Ains,” he said.

“It’s a party,” she all but blurted out. Her cheeks turned pink, her eyebrow raised high, and her tongue constantly flicking out to lick at her vibrantly-coloured red lips. “I tried to stop her, but you know how she is. She was insistent.”

He _did_ know how stubborn their mother could be. Rolling his eyes, Malcolm stepped out of the car and made his way to the front door, Ainsley following close behind. “Just tell me she didn’t invite half of New York City.”

“She wanted to,” Ainsley sighed.

It wasn’t difficult to figure out who had all been invited. For starters, Gil’s car was parked a little further away, so he knew he was there. His mother probably invited the entire NYPD, but Malcolm knew them well enough to know that they wouldn’t have accepted that invite – probably with a little of Gil’s influence, because _thank God_ that man knew him just as well as mother.

All in all, it wasn’t that bad. In fact, he caught himself enjoying himself about halfway through the party. Although the word ‘party’ couldn’t exactly be used in this context. It seemed Jessica had restrained herself and only invited those closest to her son. So Gil was there, with a beer in hand, talking to Edrisa who spent the first half hour avoiding eye-contact, seemingly clueless as what to say to him. It _was_ difficult to come up with a good opening sentence after everything that he’d gone through, after all.

JT was there, talking to his mother about a trip he had planned with his wife during the summer. His mother kept recommending restaurants he knew would be too expensive for them, but JT politely made note of them all. And Dani was there. It came as no surprise to Malcolm that she got along with Ainsley since they did share a great deal of common interests, but after two hours of constantly smiling and telling everyone he was okay and glad to be home for the weekend, he began to grow tired and weary. Dr. Simmons had warned him that would happen.

With a glass of red wine in hand, he snuck away from the living room where his mother had laid out different snacks and various bottles of alcohol – he was sure Dr. Simmons would not approve, since he was still on some heavy anti-anxiety medication – and headed towards a balcony on the first floor. Temperatures were slowly rising, or perhaps the weather felt warmer simply because he might have had a glass of wine too many, but anyway, Malcolm felt better with a soft wind brushing through his hair and across his cheeks.

The solitude gave him a moment to think, to straighten his thoughts, and calm himself. He enjoyed everyone’s company, but it was exhausting to constantly wrangle a smile on his face.

“Here you are.”

He didn’t have to _wrangle_ a smile on his face when hearing her voice. Turning, he watched Dani approach, a beer in hand, the corners of her lips slightly turned upwards. Her messy curls were tied into a loose ponytail. Malcolm didn’t think he’d ever seen her like that before. She even wore eyeliner, if he wasn’t mistaken.

“You’ve caught me,” he chuckled softly.

“Can’t be easy,” Dani said as she placed her bottle of beer on the edge of the balcony and glanced downward for a moment, gazing at the immaculately kept garden below. “Your mother was quite persistent about the welcome-back-party, though. We couldn’t refuse.”

“Well,” Malcolm laughed, “my mother has never accepted ‘no’ for an answer in her life.”

They stood in silence for a moment, but it wasn’t awkward. They simply gazed at the garden, enjoyed the rays of sunlight giving off the first warmth of the year, and sipped from their drink. If anyone downstairs had already missed their presence, they didn’t come looking for them.

“I owe you an apology,” Dani said after a long silence. She turned to look at him, her brown eyes seemingly darker than usual. Malcolm stared into them and found a burden within them. It struck something inside of him, tightening his chest, and without thinking, he reached out and placed his hand on top of hers.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry I shot you,” Dani said quietly, her gaze fixed on their touching hands.

“Shot me?” For a moment, Malcolm had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. For one very short moment, the past few months had not happened inside his mind, but then it all came rushing back. With a sigh, Malcolm pulled back his hand and curled them tightly around his glass of wine. “Oh, that,” he mumbled. He hadn’t wanted to pull away from her, but he didn’t want Dani to see his shaking hands. “I honestly don’t remember much from those days.”

It wasn’t a lie. There were days he remembered with vivid clarity, days he could replay inside his head, minute after minute. The days with Watkins kept their details, but the days after his rescue were a blur. The days at the psychiatric hospital were clear again, but then everything after his visit to his father was hazy. He mostly remembered flashes of faces and colours, bursts of scents and physical feelings. From that day on the bridge, he remembered the wind whipping across his face, the coldness of the metal bridge beneath his hands, the rushing of the river below.

The feeling of the bullet ripping through his shoulder was alien, honestly, probably because that pain was nothing compared to everything else he had already suffered through.

“You saved my life, Dani.” He wanted to look at her, wanted to gaze into her dark eyes again, wanted her to see him and see that he truly didn’t hold any grudges against her, but his gaze was fixed on his hands and he couldn’t tear it away. “If you hadn’t shot me, I probably would have jumped.”

“You weren’t thinking straight,” she replied.

“No, I wasn’t.” Sighing, Malcolm closed his eyes, steadying himself, and then finally turned to look at her. Dani Powell, the woman who saved him. She probably had no idea how much he cared about her. “You don’t owe me an apology, Dani,” he said. “In fact, it’s _I_ who owe _you_ thanks.”

Dani curled her fingers around his wrist and gave it a gently squeeze. “I have a feeling we’re gonna go around and around in circles on this.” She smiled. Her eyes seemed lighter again, the burden having disappeared from them. “I’m glad you’re better, Bright.”

“I’m not quite there yet,” he said, returning her smile. “But I’m getting there.”

-x-

He couldn’t remember when it had happened exactly; when that moment had passed when he turned from vigilant to relaxed as he sat across Dr. Simmons. His legs were crossed and his hands lay folded in his lap. His hair was getting too long, strands of brown continuously flicking in front of his eyes, and he should probably shave, but his nonchalance had nothing to do with indifference. No, he simply felt … at ease. He was still going through the motions, every day the same as the one before, but that boredom offered structure, which was what he’d needed.

“If you can only choose one emotion to describe your current state of mind,” Dr. Simmons said, his green eyes fixed on his patient, “what would that be?” It had been a while since he’d written anything down on his notepad during their sessions. Malcolm considered that a good sign – although he was sure the good doctor wrote an entire rapport on him once he closed the door behind him.

“Only one …” Malcolm echoed, nodding as he thought of a good answer; a true answer. “I think that would be … calm.” He gazed back at Dr. Simmons, finding his green eyes widening ever so slightly, surprised by his choice of word. “I feel calm.”

“You’re sleeping well?”

“Better than before, at least.” His dreams could still be restless, filled with violent images, screeching voices, and poignant, metallic smells, but he no longer awoke screaming, disorientated. He no longer bruised nurses as they desperately tried to calm him. “It helps writing them down, like you said.”

“Chief Lieutenant Arroyo came by yesterday,” Dr. Simmons said then, changing the subject, a question clearly having been on his mind since the start of their session. “He came by the office and said he had news about John Watkins.”

If Dr. Simmons wanted to witness a certain reaction to that name, he didn’t get it. Malcolm’s jaws still clenched together upon hearing that name, but his hands no longer began to shake. Colour no longer drained from his face. Hearing that name no longer elicited a panic-attack. _Most of the time_. “My father confessed to his murder,” he explained. Gil had found that great news. Malcolm hadn’t known what to think of it. His father never did anything without good reason. “The DA was looking to press charges against me, too, as an abettor, but all charges were dropped.”

“And how do you feel about that?” Dr. Simmons asked.

“About what?”

“About your father having gone and killed a man,” Dr. Simmons clarified. “For you.”

Malcolm inhaled sharply. Dr. Simmons knew what had happened that day at the Claremont Psychiatric Hospital, Malcolm having told him everything, because he’d needed to tell someone and he hadn’t been able to confess it all to Gil. The thought that Gil would look at him differently, like he was a murderer – which he _was_ – had the bottom of his stomach shift away.

He swallowed down the bile that rose up his throat.

“My father is many things,” he started, a dozen different thoughts coming at him all at once. “But a selfless fatherly figure he is not.” A humourless huff of laughter escaped his lips. “What my father did that day wasn’t to help me or to protect me. He saw an opportunity to kill someone and he took it, just like he would take any opportunity thrown at him to save a life.” Closing his eyes, he remembered that moment when his father had stabbed Watkins through the heart with a weapon given to him by his son. His blood clung to his fingers just as much as it clung to his father’s. “He’s a manipulator and, as much as I manipulated him, he manipulated me.”

“You’re not afraid you are now more like your father than before all this happened?” Dr. Simmons’ hand reached for a pen laying to his left, to make a note or write down a thought, which Malcolm detested.

“No,” he answered without a pause. “My father kills, because he enjoys the thrill of it, the power it gives him. That’s not something I can every hope to understand.”

Dr. Simmons’ fingers hovered above the pen. “Not even as a profiler?”

“As a profiler, yes,” Malcolm said, nodding. “As a son, never.”

The doctor picked up the pen, but twirled it between his fingers and nothing more. “I think you’ve made great progress these past few weeks, Malcolm,” he said, a ghost of a smile playing around the corners of his lips. He always looked younger when he smiled. Kinder. “How would you feel about going home at the end of the week? Definitely?”

Malcolm smiled broadly. “I think I’m ready.”

Dr. Simmons returned his smile. “I think so, too.”

-x-

The photo of Charlotte Brewster was with him, always. He kept it in the inside of his jacket, close to his heart, as a reminder of what he had gone through. It wasn’t to torture himself, to continuously remember what he’d done, but to remind himself of the havoc Watkins had wreaked, and that he needed to be stronger than him, _always_. Sometimes, he still caught a shimmer of her from the corner of his eye, like she was watching him from across his shoulder, but whenever he turned, she was gone. He carried her with him, like a shadow, but it wasn’t dragging him down anymore. On the contrary. She reminded him of the person he could have been today – destroyed and broken – and the person he was – stronger than Watkins had ever hoped he would be.

The first week at home hadn’t been easy. It wasn’t the loneliness that he’d struggled with or the sudden lack of structure the psychiatric clinic offered, but the constant vigilance of everyone around him. His mother came by a dozen times a day. Ainsley called him whenever she seemed to have a free minute. Gil visited him every evening, but Malcolm hadn’t missed the police-cars driving by his apartment every hour. Edrisa sent him e-mails mostly filled with useless chatter – he enjoyed reading them – and a few filled with inappropriate details of current cases they were working on – he _loved_ reading those.

It was during his second week at home he realised he missed his daily therapy-sessions with Dr. Simmons. They had a weekly appointment, which Malcolm found himself looking forward to, despite the nagging need to cancel one hour in advance, but he forced himself to go and spoke to the doctor about his dreams, about his family, and about Edrisa’s e-mails.

Finally, Malcolm had dared to pose the question that had been on his mind ever since he left the hospital. _When can I come back to work?_ Gil had stared at him with wide eyes, his lips slightly parted, his mind evidentially scrambling for an answer. There were a few dozen reasons Malcolm could think of for why he should go back to work, but eventually he’d needed to accept Gil’s _‘it’s too soon’_.

-x-

4 weeks later

-x-

New York was hot again. Malcolm had been sure he would have welcomed the smothering heat of New York City with open arms, anything to forget about the cold weeks at Watkins’ house, but he was wrong. As he walked down Eighth Avenue, a newspaper tucked under one arm and a cup of iced coffee in his other hand, he felt the sun blare down on him with unforgiven heat. Drops of sweat trickled down the back of his neck and down his spine. His white dress shirt clung to his skin.

Still, there was nothing that could ruin this day. Humming a nameless tune and a giant smile plastered on his face – people frowned at him when they passed him by – Malcolm walked up to the doorstep of the precinct and inhaled deeply when he stepped into the lobby. The cheap smell of ink and paper mixed with the lovely smell of watery coffee had him sigh softly. How he’d missed this place.

Some officers looked confused upon seeing him. Others welcomed him back with a polite tap on the shoulders or quick hello’s. Malcolm made a mental note to ask JT for their names. Perhaps he could send them something, a basket of fruit perhaps. No, that was a _terrible_ idea.

The bullpen area was busy as always. Printers were buzzing to life or refusing to show any sign of life at all, officers were typing reports on their computers, a coffee-machine was brewing a fresh pot of coffee to his left, and people everywhere were shuffling and reorganizing papers. They were sounds Malcolm had missed, but would probably find annoying again in a matter of weeks.

“Bright!” Dani spotted him and quickly waved him over. She looked nothing like he’d last seen her at his improvised welcome-home party, but even without eyeliner and lipstick, she looked beautiful. Not that he would tell her that, certainly not here. He was sure she’d wrangle his arm behind his back and force him to apologize. “Not that I’m complaining, but… You’re late.”

“There was a line at Starbucks,” he said, lifting his iced coffee.

She rolled her eyes. “Right.”

“You look nice,” he grinned, just to tease her.

Dani’s eyes narrowed to slits and he could see her hesitate to reach for her gun. Instead, she reached for his coffee and took a generous sip from it. “Bring me a full one next time,” she smirked. “It’s freaking hot out there.”

“You tell me.”

“For real, though,” she said then, handing him back the coffee, “I’m glad you’re back.”

His grin faltered and his muscles tensed ever so slightly. He had looked forward to this day ever since he’d left the hospital, had known people would come up to him and welcome him back and possibly ask questions about what happened. He had mentally prepared for all that, had even talked to Dr. Simmons about it, but to find Dani looking at him with such impregnable dark eyes… He felt completely and utterly unprepared for that.

“Me, too,” he settled on.

The door to Gil’s office opened and out stepped the Chief Lieutenant. “I thought I heard your voice,” he said, a giant smile breaking free across his face. Malcolm spotted hesitance behind his gaze, though. Gil had needed time to adjust to the idea he was coming back, had tried to convince him to stay home for another two weeks, but Malcolm had been adamant he was ready. “Has Dani given you the update yet?”

“No,” Malcolm replied. “She’s been too busy stealing my coffee.”

Dani gasped, as if betrayed.

Gil rolled his eyes.

After shooting her a quick wink, Malcolm followed the Chief into his office and paused upon seeing a dozen pictures spread out on his desk. They were pictures of the same man who seemed to have been murdered with a rope or something equally pliant that had been wrapped around his neck. Malcolm carefully approached the desk, set down his plastic cup of coffee and the newspaper tucked under his arm, and lifted the nearest picture. The man had red and purple ligature marks around his neck, the same ones Malcolm had been forced to live with for months after having been tied down to the floor of Watkins’ attic-room.

“Are you okay?” Gil asked.

Just thinking about the metal chain wrapped his ankle had the skin there throb painfully. And yet… Malcolm placed the picture down and picked up another one. The man had a nasty bruise covering the left side of his face. There were more pictures of bruises on his skin; his chest, his stomach, his arms, his thighs.

“Bright?” Gil asked again, concern tracing his voice.

Inhaling sharply, Malcolm let the images come to him. He let the colours of the cuts and bruises depicted in the pictures filter through his head, and while his body seemed to remember what it was like to be bruised like that, too, he found his mind could focus and think of only the victim.

“This was a passionate crime,” he said, looking up at Gil who stared at him with narrowed eyes and worry lining his bearded face. Malcolm knew what he was thinking – _this was too soon –_ but he wouldn’t let Gil have that thought. “Whoever killed this man, he was driven by passion, be it love or hate.”

“Malcolm …”

“I’m alright,” he promised, staring into Gil’s dark eyes.

Gil stared back at him, for five long seconds which felt like five minutes. There was only the buzzing of the air-conditioning-vent up ahead that made noise, but Malcolm refused to be the one that spoke first. He kept his gaze locked with the Chief and willed him to see his determination. There wasn’t a fibre of his being that doubted himself.

“Are you sure?” Gil eventually asked.

A bright smile broke free across his face. “Tell me everything you know about this case,” he said. “I bet you I can find the perp within a week.”


End file.
